A Very Guy Christmas Carol
by traveller19
Summary: Sir Guy of Gisborne has been installed as the Sheriff of Nottingham after he murders Vaisey, and is on his way to wealth and power at the expense of the peasants he governs.  But will he change his ways when things start to get a little...ghostly?
1. Stave I

**Author's Note:**

This fic is AU for a number of reasons. Besides the obvious ghost thing, the timing is off. I haven't seen S3 for awhile (I'm not nearly as much of a fan of it as the first two seasons), so I'm not sure if the continuity is correct. But this isn't really intended to fit anywhere specifically into canon anyway, except for taking place after Vaisey's death in Season 3. This is my first Guy fic, and there will be four more staves after this, as would be consistent with Dickens's wonderful story. (Trivia! Did you know that Charles Dickens was Harry Lloyd's great-great-great-grandfather? I guess awesomeness runs in the family!) Enjoy and please review! Merry Christmas!

The Sheriff of Nottingham was dead. At least, the _old_ Sheriff of Nottingham was dead. Sir Guy of Gisborne had done the deed himself, and watched the old man's body be wheeled out of Nottingham town on a cart with no small amount of satisfaction. After all, _he_ was now the Sheriff of Nottingham, and Prince John had promised that this was just the beginning of his rewards. The farthest reaches of wealth and power were now finally within his grasp, so close that he could almost taste them. He knew that he should feel relieved that, after years of working for Vaisey and not receiving anywhere near the credit he deserved, he had finally been assured that he would reap his appropriate benefits. But instead, his drive was stronger than ever.

It was this drive that had caused him to lock Isabella in the dungeons the moment his new title was made official. She strove to take his position away from him and claim it from her own, but he had made it perfectly clear that he would let _no one_, not even his little sister, put his prize in jeopardy.

"Comfortable, little sister?" Guy did not try to hide his sarcastic smirk as he stood outside the door of her cell, arms crossed over his chest and head tilted cockily to one side.

"Extremely," she shot back from where she sat on a splintering wooden plank that was suspended from the ceiling by two thick iron chains which matched the ones that were currently shackled around her wrists. Her evergreen-colored dress was smudged with dirt and wrinkled, her long dark hair tangled and dull. And though her eyes were narrowed in anger and hatred, Guy knew her well enough to tell that she was fighting to keep up her confident, defiant visage, wanting desperately to give into tears, to drop to her knees before him and beg him to show her mercy.

"Well, we can't have that, now can we? Maybe I could make those shackles a little tighter."

"What is it that you want from me, Guy?" Isabella was beginning to lose her grip on her mask of security-Guy could hear it in the way her voice shook, ever so slightly, as she asked him this question, and the knowledge brought him a sense of cold satisfaction.

"Want? Oh, there's nothing I _want_ from you, sister. You are sitting in that cell because you have committed a crime and are being punished. It's the common protocol for criminals, but you wouldn't know that, would you? Because if you did, I wouldn't have caught you consorting with outlaws in the first place!"

"That's only a pretense!" she snarled. "You've thrown me in here because you see me as a threat! Me, your own little sister!"

"So what if I do? You're in there in chains, and I'm out here with the key. What are you going to do about it?" Guy raised one eyebrow as he twirled the keyring around his index finger. To him, their jingling sounded like an anthem to his success.

Isabella leapt suddenly to her feet and threw herself against the bars of the cell in a moment of blind desperation, crying "Let me go!" Her brother merely took a step backward, his amusement growing with every second.

"No."

She tried another approach, dropping to her knees and grasping the bars with her chained hands. "Please Guy, it's Christmas Eve. Just for a moment, could you not allow the spirit of Christmas to manifest itself in you, to remember the needs of your family?"

He blinked. "No."

"Then could you not at least take the shackles off, and bring me a blanket? It's freezing in here, and my wrists are burning. Please." Isabella drew a shaky breath as she awaited her brother's response.

Guy squatted down so that his eyes were at the same level as hers and dangled the keys in front of her face, his smirk unwavering as he spoke.

"I have worked in this castle for seven years, sister, and I have seen thousands of prisoners dragged down the hallways that lead to these dungeons. And apart from the ones who have already had their tongues cut out, every single one of them has either tried to beg or charm their way out. Now I don't care what day of the year it is, or who you are-you're going to suffer through your punishment just like the rest of them, like the _common criminal _that you are." He spat at her feet for emphasis before standing straight, turning on his heel, and setting off down the corridor toward the upper levels of the castle, ignoring the sounds of his sister's sobs that followed him.

As much as Guy had disliked Vaisey, he had certainly picked up a useful technique or two from him when it came to dealing with prisoners, that he had to admit.

Back in his office, Guy sat back in his chair for a moment, glancing around the room with satisfaction. He had made several improvements from when Vaisey had piloted Nottingham from that room. He had gotten rid of that godforsaken bird collection, to begin with. And he'd had a new chair specially crafted-padded with black leather, of course.

He was just beginning to start brainstorming new ideas for taxes-he needed money to keep Prince John happy, after all, as it was he who had allowed him to take on this position, and it was he who would help Guy advance in power in influence-when his captain of the guard burst through the door.

"Can't you see I'm busy? Learn. To. KNOCK!" Guy's growl became a bark.

"Sir G...I mean, my lord Sheriff, we have a problem." The soldier sounded very nervous, and his tone made Guy's heart perform a worried flip.

"What _kind_ of problem?" he asked, keeping his voice low and forcibly calm.

"My lord, it would seem as though the chest of gold that was to be sent to London for Prince John's taxes tomorrow morning has been...emptied." The guard shuffled his feet in a very un-soldierlike manner as he confessed this.

"What do you mean, _emptied_? Emptied by _whom_?" Guy's voice was dangerously quiet, for he already knew the answer to this question.

Slowly, the captain of the guard reached into the pocket of his uniform and withdrew an arrow, fletched with the telltale black-and-white-striped feathers.

"I'm afraid it was Robin Hood, my lord."

"Yes, I can _see _that!" spat Guy, leaping to his feet in rage. The guard took a step backward. Guy stood with both hands on his desk, breathing labored in his anger, silently cursing Hood and this setback to his success and the damper it had put in his confident mood. After an uncomfortably long silence, he raised his head to look at the shaken captain of the guard.

"I want whoever was supposed to be guarding that money given forty lashes, and then I want the guard doubled on the treasury. DO IT _NOW_!"

The captain of the guard nodded vigorously and hurried with much relief away from the office. Guy glanced wildly around for something to throw, settling on a thankfully unlit candelabra. The broken candles left a waxy residue on the stone wall.

Hood! His day had been going perfectly, _perfectly_, and then that overrated, peasant-championing lover-boy and his band of ragtag outlaws had to come and ruin it! That chest had contained a month's worth of taxes, and it was due to go out on Christmas morning, which happened to be the very next day. If Prince John didn't get his requested amount of money from Nottingham, Guy would be the one to suffer for it. The prince would think him unfit to be Sheriff, reducing his promised riches and influence and ruining his reputation, not to mention possibly stripping his hard-won title. No, that _could not_ happen. Guy would not let it.

Guy sat back down in his leather chair, dipped a quill in ink, and began what he had meant to do before he was so rudely interrupted by this most annoying news. Annoying, yes, and infuriating-he had, after all, just been robbed and mocked by his sworn enemy-but he would not let it be debilitating. Oh, no. Robin Hood and his men would no doubt be distributing the money to the peasants, but Guy would make their efforts completely worthless by upping the taxes.

The problem was, what to tax that had not already been taxed? Vaisey's reign as Sheriff had seen that literally every possible good and action come with an extra toll to be brought into the castle. Guy knew this because he had been the one to collect these taxes, for the most part. The only time another tax collector had stepped in, he'd ended up dead. Guy wondered briefly if he could charge the citizens of Nottingham for the air they breathed, but then realized that this would be very difficult to measure. Finally, he settled on increasing the taxes for food and cloth, necessities that the peasants could not do without. He called for a page to fetch the scroll and have the "alterations to the economic system" announced. With his Sheriff's work done for the day, Guy pulled on his heaviest leather coat and headed out to the stables.

After threatening the stableboy with twenty lashes next time he did not have the Sheriff of Nottingham's horse ready on time, Guy set off for Locksley Manor. He cursed the cold as he rode-it made his horse energetic, and after his fuming over the theft, he did not have the energy to deal with it. And he hated, absolutely_ hated _snow. It was much too...white. Guy liked black. Why couldn't snow be black?

As Guy rode through the portcullis that separated Nottingham Castle from the rest of the town, he saw hundreds of beggars, huddled together in shivering, pitiful packs to keep warm as the wet, sticky snow fell out of the sky onto their poorly-clothed backs and uncovered heads. Guy shook his own head in disgust-they were getting what they deserved for being unmotivated enough to let opportunities to get ahead in life, to become successful, pass them by.

He was jolted out of these thoughts when his horse shied violently. Guy fought for the reins and yanked on the animal's mouth, bringing his crop down hard on its flank when it flattened its ears against its head. When Guy regained his composure, he noticed a small, shaking figure gathering itself up off the ground. It was clothed in rags, and when it turned its face briefly toward Guy, he could see that it was a child. It must have gotten beneath his horse's feet, causing it to spook.

"You there!" Guy's loud bark and dangerous glare set the already frightened child to tears. "How dare you run beneath my horse and spook it! You could have gotten me killed!"

"P...p...please, S...s...sir Guy, I did...didn't mean too," the little boy whimpered.

A girl, who looked to be a few years older than the boy but was just as dirty and poorly clothed, approached and placed a hand on the lad's shoulder.

"Please forgive my brother, Sir Guy. He meant you no harm, he is but a child. We were trying to cross the street to beg for our dinner. We haven't had any luck on this side." She motioned to the general area behind her, where there were numerous other peasants crying out at passers-by for alms. "I...I don't suppose you'd be willing to spare a coin, good Sir Guy?"

Guy narrowed his eyes. Spare a coin? His treasury had just been robbed by Robin Hood and now there was a danger of him not having enough money to maintain his position as Sheriff. Of course he could not _spare a coin_!

"Absolutely not!" he spat. "Begone with you!"

The little boy whimpered pathetically again, but the girl turned desperate eyes upon him. "Please Sir Guy, it is Christmas Eve. It has been nearly two days since my baby brother or I have tasted a crumb of bread. Please, be kind."

"I have given you my answer. Now out of my way!" Guy kicked his horse into a trot. The girl pulled her brother from the huge stallion's path just in time. Guy yelled "Make way for the Sheriff of Nottingham!" as he rode, never once looking back at the poor beggar children whom he had just denied life's sustenance.

Night had fallen by the time Guy reached Locksley, and he noted the eeriness of the glow cast by the moon upon the thatch huts and the vacant yards as he rode up the dirt track that ran through the little village. "Eerie glow," he snorted to himself. "Really now, Guy, you're getting a bit poetic there, aren't you?" But despite his sarcastic, self-depreciating comment, he could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right.

He was furious when he reached the stable to find it unoccupied by anyone but his horses-apparently all of his servants had found it acceptable to take their leave early on this holiday whose only point seemed to be to tax Guy's patience. Shivering now that he had been separated from the warmth of the stallion's body, Guy quickly and unceremoniously untacked the horse, threw a blanket on him, and dumped some oats into his feeding trough. The animal pinned its ears unhappily at having carried this somewhat abusive man, who was rather heavy in all of his leathers, all the way from Nottingham to Locksley, only to be under-appreciated like this. Next time, he would be sure to throw him into the closest mud puddle.

With the barn chores done with the minimum energy possible, a rather exhausted Guy went to let himself into the house. He had just rested his hand on the door-latch to open it when he felt something _moving_ beneath his hand. Guy let out an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp and jumped backward, staring at the latch, chest heaving.

There was nothing there. It was just a regular door-latch.

The cold must have been playing tricks with his sensations. Guy glanced over both of his shoulders, wondering just how loud his rather feminine-sounding cry had rung through the village. He did not see faces in any of the cottage windows, but that was not a sure sign of anything.

He reached for the latch again, stretching out his arm and reaching his hand painfully slowly for it. He was just about to touch the latch with the tips of his fingers when it suddenly the cold iron twisted into the shape of the face of his least favorite person in the world, even though he knew him to be dead. His door-latch had become Vaisey.

As Guy looked on in utter horror, the iron face opened its crooked-toothed orifice and mouthed the two syllables that Guy hated to hear most from his mouth. And though no sound came from the metal monster, the message was clear: "_GIZ-BORNE!_"

With a gasp, Guy stumbled backward, slipping on a patch of ice in his haste and falling buttocks-first into the snow. By the time he recovered himself and got to his feet, the face had gone, and his old iron door-latch was back. Closing his eyes, Guy thrust it open and rushed into his house, slamming the door behind him.

Thornton had at least been considerate enough to light a fire in the sitting room before he took his leave. Now Guy would have to punish him both for leaving without permission and for not knowing a fire hazard when he saw one. But in the light and relative warmth of the blaze, Guy realized just how silly he was being. A face in a door-latch? Preposterous! He hated to admit that his conscience was possibly playing tricks on him-he would have to get more comfortable with killing those who needed to be removed. One would think after two attempted regicides one would get used to murdering their betters to get ahead in life. Guy went to see what he could scrounge up for dinner, since apparently his cooks had left, as well.

After turning his kitchens practically upside for some form of sustenance that did not involve cooking (he had been born a lordling and therefore had no culinary skills whatsoever), Guy flopped down on a well-padded chair back in the sitting room with two pieces of bread, some cheese, some dried meat, and some wine. It wasn't exactly the hot meal he had been anticipating after the long, frigid ride. The bread was stale, the meat too salty, and the cheese too hard. Really the only decent thing was the wine, for Guy was in need of it tonight. He was wondering if maybe putting the meat and cheese between the two pieces of bread might make the whole lot taste better when he heard the distinctive sound of a door slamming. He froze-from the direction the noise had come from, it had to have been his front door. Swallowing his bite of bread/meat/cheese combination past a dry throat, Guy called out, cursing himself for the uncertain tone of voice that came out of his mouth.

"Who's there?"

There was no verbal response, but Guy could hear whoever had entered his house approaching the sitting room, and it sounded as though they had brought some extra baggage with them. Guy felt a chill run down his spine as a sound that could only be that of many heavy, metal objects being drug across the floor filled his ears. It got louder and more amplified until Guy had no choice but to put his hands over his ears or risk being deafened by high-pitched screeching as it grew closer and closer. Snapping out of his reverie with the realization that the noise had almost reached the sitting room, Guy leapt to his feet and slammed the door shut, and then grabbed a chair and shoved it under the knob to keep it from turning. Panting from the exertion and from fear, Guy stepped backward and stared at the door as that awful noise kept coming still closer. It was right outside the door, but still it kept coming. And suddenly he saw a transparent shape squeeze its way _through_ the door. The see-through form of an all-too familiar short, bald man had entered Guy's sitting room, and now he was apparently bringing all of his prized possessions in with him, attached to his every limb by chains. There were some moneybags, also transparent, but what really terrified Guy were the machines and devices of torture. First there came a horsewhip, and then a pair of thick, strong metal clippers that Guy had used to cut out tongues and pull teeth. There was the ducking device that had been used to nearly drown the midwife accused of being a witch in Locksley pond, numerous stakes and stocks, the rack from the castle dungeons, and finally the gallows themselves.

Guy stood there for what seemed like ages, feet glued to the floor, mouth open in utter disbelief and fear, as the ghost of Vaisey, the former Sheriff of Nottingham, the man who he had killed, dragged the clear and yet obviously substantial image of every torture device he owned into Guy's sitting room. Finally the specter turned to him, breathing hard and glaring, and barked,

"Thank you for offering to help, Gisborne! I appreciate it, _truly_!"

"What are you _doing_ here?" Guy had finally found his voice. "You're _dead_!"

"_Really_, Gisborne," spat Vaisey's ghost in a disgusted manner very much like that which he had possessed in life. "Did you really think that even death is a match for someone so cruel as me? _You_ killed me, Gisborne, and therefore as long as you live on, so do I!" He rubbed his hands together in glee at the idea.

"You mean I'm tormented by guilt?" Guy raised an eyebrow-he certainly didn't _feel_ very guilty. He thought that by murdering the old Sheriff, he had been doing everyone in Nottinghamshire a favor.

The ghost snorted. "Guilt? Oh come now, Gisborne, the only person you've ever felt guilty about killing is Marian." Guy bristled at the mention of what he considered to be the most horrible thing he had ever done-it was certain the action he regretted most in his life. "Oh, don't look at me like that. What are you going to do? I'm dead." The ghost chuckled, oddly thrilled at this idea.

"So if it's not guilt, then why are you haunting me?" Guy glanced nervously at the transparent torture devices that now cluttered the floor of his sitting room and hoped that Vaisey showing up as a part of his door decor and then letting himself and everything material that was dear to his dearly departed dead heart into Guy's house would not become a recurring event.

The former Sheriff of Nottingham's ghost rolled his eyes and sighed in an annoyed manner. "It seems as though I've been sent here to warn you."

"Warn me? Of _what_?" Guy was sufficiently worried now. Since when had _Vaisey_ ever cared enough about someone to warn them about anything? "And sent by whom?"

"Never mind the second question. That's for me to know, and you...not to know." There was sly tone to Vaisey's voice before he sighed and said, "All right then, Gisborne. Down to business. I suppose I should start by admitting that I did a few things during my lifetime that were... less than savory."

"I'll say," Guy stated drily.

The ghost chose to ignore his comment. "So I hanged some peasants, had a few more tortured, cut out some tongues here and there, really nothing serious if you ask me... _anyway_, I am apparently now being punished for it." He held up his wrists to indicate the chains that were shackled to them. "'A taste of your own medicine' and all of that nonsense. Do you realize how heavy the rack is, Gisborne?"

"Even when it's transparent?" Guy smirked.

"Try to lift it up, why don't you?" Vaisey was getting frustrated now. "So my...possessions...and I were sent to show you that you better not be like me because...well, you'll end up like me."

Guy lifted an eyebrow. "Be like you? I'm _nothing_ like you. Because _unlike_ you, I'm actually getting things done as Sheriff! Prince John has promised me wealth and power beyond even _your _wildest dreams! So I don't think you have to worry."

"When have I ever _worried_ about anyone, Gizzy?" The specter laughed drily. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you-my job here is done. Now how am I going to get all of this...equipment...out through these narrow doorways?" he muttered this last question.

"Don't expect me to help you," Guy said caustically.

"Oh, I don't," said Vaisey's ghost with equal sarcasm. Slowly and painstakingly, he began to pull his immense load toward the door by which he had entered. He leaned on the see-through gallows and pushed as hard as he could. They didn't budge. He pushed again, even harder, it seemed to a simultaneously amused and horrified Guy. The enormous contraption of death moved ever so slightly this time. Vaisey sighed and made to go through the door and pull his load painfully along behind him, but then turned back to his employee in life.

"Oh yes, I almost forgot to mention. _My _job here is done; but _your_ ghostly experience has just begun." He smiled evilly with the thrill of withholding information.

"What do you mean, _my_ ghostly experience?" Try as he might, Guy could not hide the slight shake to his voice.

"Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits. One..." Vaisey held up his index finger. "Two..." It was joined by his middle finger. "Three." His ring-clad fourth finger joined the mix.

"But you're already here, so I've actually got two left?" Guy still wasn't entirely sure he believed that the image he saw before him was actually Vaisey's ghost. It was always possible he was reacting a little bit more strongly than he had planned to the wine he had consumed with his dinner. Therefore, he wasn't as worried as he might have been about the figure's words.

"Nope. Three more to go. I don't count. Maybe they'll be more successful at getting through your obscenely thick skull than I have. Good night, Gisborne." And with that, he vanished through the door, and all of his baggage with him.

Guy just stood there for quite some time, eyes fixed on the spot where the ghost had been. Though he didn't like to admit it, his sureness that the ghost was but a figment of his slightly intoxicated imagination was beginning to waver a bit. What if it had been real? Even worse, what if it had actually been telling the truth?

"Nonsense," said his practical side. "It's my new position and all of the stress that's come with it! Isabella and her plots to steal my title...not to mention Robin Hood. It's thanks to him that I have to scrounge up more money to send to London."

But that would have to wait until morning. If Guy was drunk enough to be seeing dead people come to life, he obviously needed a good night's sleep to clear his thoughts. After all, everyone knew there was no such thing as ghosts.

Guy kept this thought in his head as he climbed the darkened staircase to the second story of Locksley Manor and lay down in his bed, pulling the curtains extra tight, just for good measure. He was asleep almost instantly.


	2. Stave II

Guy woke with a start. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

It was still dark, for one thing.

Slowly the events of earlier that night came back to him, and he closed his eyes with an inward groan, wishing the memories away. It must surely have just been a dream, hadn't it? After all, Vaisey was dead- Guy had killed him himself. And there were no such thing as ghosts. He was a grown man, after all, not some weakling child who took everything he was told as the truth. Spirits. Ha! Oh, there had been spirits, all right. That had been what caused him to envision Vaisey in his sitting room, shaking all of his transparent torture devices in Guy's face. Yes, spirits in excess.

Suddenly, Guy caught his breath as out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of movement to his right, over by the window. There it was again! Guy reached for the curved dagger on his bedside table, his movements so slow they were almost imperceptible. He could now see a figure through his thick burgundy bedcurtains. A thief, no doubt. Still lying on his back, heart palpitating, Guy moved the dagger into position as the figure moved closer, closer. The beating in Guy's chest, the blood pounding in his ears, the fear leaping in his throat- none of it should be happening; he should be cool and calm. But the memory of Vaisey's words suddenly rang out in his ears like metal on stone, and he could not stifle his gasp.

At that moment, the figure reached out a hand and drew back the bed-curtain. Caught off his guard by his sudden strike of paranoid memory, Guy had no time to react, and he found himself looking up at the face of the perpetrator.

It was a thief, all right. A thief whom he happened to know very well.

"'Ello, mate!" said Guy's former lackey with excessive cheerfulness, a wide grin stretched across his face. The blue eyes glanced down at the dagger in Gisborne's hand. "What's that for?"

"Er... nothing. Allan, what are you doing here?" Guy tried to sound angry- Allan was, after all, an outlaw, a traitor, a cohort of his mortal enemy, and currently trespassing in his bedroom. But the question came out incredulous and almost relieved; in comparison to who (or _what_) Guy might have seen, he must admit he was nearly glad that it was Allan who stood before him.

"I'm not Allan, mate."

_Huh_? Apparently, the lad had indulged in too many spirits himself. Guy rolled his eyes.

"Of course you're Allan," he said in a practical, somewhat bored tone. "You _look_ like Allan, you _speak_ like Allan, you _act _like Allan..." Upon hearing this, the thief quickly put the silver cloak-link he had been fingering back into its drawer and smiled innocently.

"I'm tellin' you, mate, I'm not Allan. But I suppose I can't expect you to believe that."

Well, that was the first rational thing he'd said so far. "What reason would I have to believe you?

You betrayed me." Guy winced at the unbidden hurt that crept into his voice, but if Allan noticed, he didn't let on.

"_I_ didn't betray you, _Allan_ betrayed you." His tone was calm and patient, like a mother telling a child for the thousandth time that they could not have their dinner until they had washed the grime off of their hands.

Fine, then. He'd play along, humor the boy.

"Well, if you're not Allan, then who are you?"

He smiled. "I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past."

Gisborne snorted. "The _what_?"

"You heard me. And don't act like you didn't know I was coming. The Sheriff came and warned you, remember?"

Guy's heart skipped a beat in fear at this reminder, but he didn't let it show on his face. This was all just part of one of Allan's elaborate pranks. He had drugged his food with something, probably nicked from that glorified monk Hood kept around his camp these days, and now he was toying with Guy's head.

"So why is the Sheriff's ghost is actually the Sheriff, but you're not really Allan?" Ha, now he'd cornered him.

The blue eyes rolled skyward. "Look, mate. I don't make the rules, I just follow 'em. Now are you coming or not? We haven't got all night."

_Coming_? "Coming where?"

Allan/The Ghost of Christmas Past/ Figment of Guy's Imagination smiled mischievously.

"Christmas Past, of course! _Your_ past, actually. Come on, out the window's by far the quickest way. Just grab the edge of my cloak and let's be off!" He beckoned Guy eagerly with a wave of his hand.

Now Guy was _really_ beginning to fear for the lad- he really didn't seem drunk. His speech wasn't slurred, his blue eyes were perfectly clear... perhaps he'd finally gone mental living in that forest?

"Allan, are you... feeling all right?" Guy spoke deliberately, choosing his words with care; he had heard that the best thing to do with mad people was not to let them know you suspected they had gone mad because they could get angry and retaliate. Allan had never been quick to anger, but if he'd gone off his rocker, well...

He seemed to be getting frustrated now. "For the last time, I'm _not Allan_, and I'm feeling rather claustrophobic at the moment- not used to being in one place so long, but thank you for asking- so we really ought to get going so _come on_, out the window we go!"

"Can't we just take the door?" Guy glanced demonstratively over at the entrance people _normally_ took to get in his bedroom.

Not-Allan laughed jovially. "Yeah, but where would be the fun in that?" And with that, he grabbed ahold of Guy's arm, placed his hand to his outlaw's cloak, and jumped.

And then they were falling from Guy's second-story window and Guy was screaming at the top of his lungs. They were maybe five feet from the ground when they suddenly _stopped_ falling and started floating. The ghost- for Guy was finally convinced that this was what he was-, rolled over so that his back was facing the ground, folded his hands leisurely behind his head, and grinned up at Guy.

"Rather thrilling, wasn't that? I'd have to say it gets better every time!"

His eyes enormous, Guy managed to choke out between gasps of breath, "Was that... _really_... necessary?"

The Allan-shaped spirit smiled cheekily. "Absolutely not."

Guy's eyes flashed dangerously, and he made to reach up and give the insolent _thing_ the walloping it deserved, but Allan-ghost shook his head with a with an expression of amused warning.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, mate. You might not like the consequences. _Especially_ not if you let go of the cloak."

He poked a finger in the direction of the ground, which was still just a _little_ too far away for Guy to be comfortable with meeting it. He settled for a low growl. Allan smirked. Guy narrowed his eyes at him and then made the mistake of looking down. He didn't open his eyes again for several minutes after that, but when he did he gradually found that he was actually enjoying the sensation of flying a bit. It was simultaneously exhilarating and peaceful. But he would rather let go of the cloak and smash into the ground below than let the Allan-ghost know that.

Soon, the indistinct figure of a manor loomed in the distance, and when Guy squinted to better see it he caught his breath.

"It...it's..._home_," he whispered, swallowing hard and hating having to do so.

The spirit smiled gently, displaying a rather un-Allan-ish tact by saying nothing. Instead, he placed a hand on Guy's shoulder and guided him down toward the ground until they stood at the window to the sitting room. Guy leaned on the windowsill and stared eagerly at the four people within.

Even though it was dark outside, the room was well-lit courtesy of a roaring blaze in the fireplace. Sir Roger of Gisborne, dressed in all of the holiday finery befitting a noble of his stature, stood near the mantle, a chalice of spiced wine in his hands. He was laughing jovially at the antics of an enthusiastic seven-year-old Isabella, who was relating to him with broad gestures the size of the snowman she and her friends had built earlier that day. Lady Ghislaine sat in a soft chair near the corner of the room so that she could still feel the warmth, but the intensity of the fire would not harm her smooth, delicate skin. The reflections of the flames illuminated the sweet smile upon her fair face as she observed her family.

There was one person who was not smiling, however-the teenaged boy with a shock of black hair who stood in a corner, leaning against the wall opposite the fireplace, as though he was trying to stay as far from its warmth and light and cheer as possible. The young Guy of Gisborne's arms were crossed, and his face held the same uninterested expression that he up until recently had often employed to convince Vaisey that he, too, could not care less about the woes of peasants.

"Havin' a grand time, weren't you, mate?" The tact had vanished, and the cheeky grin had returned. Guy glared at the spirit.

"Shut up." The movement of Isabella's red velvet dress toward the corner in which his younger self stood caught the corner of Guy's eye, and he turned back toward the window. The child was holding a wound-up string of greenery in both arms, its length making it so bulky that it nearly covered her eyes.

"Guy, come and hang the greens with me! I'll start here, and you can start at the fireplace, and we'll race to see who can hang all theirs first!" The little girl held her burden out at arm's length toward her brother, eyes shining with all the excitement of a child at Christmastime. Her brother merely raised an eyebrow and gave a long-suffering sigh.

"_Racing_ is childish, Isabella. And we have servants to hang the greenery."

Isabella's face fell at his admonishment. Sir Roger cast his son a disapproving look.

"Guy, what is wrong with humoring your sister every once and awhile?" He rested his hand on his daughter's shoulder, as she had trudged back to seek solace in the folds of his cloak at her brother's rejection.

"I have no use for her immaturity and childish games, Father! Such frivolities have no place in the life of a lord." Guy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in frustration at Sir Roger's lack of understanding.

"But Guy, it is Christmas! Now is the time for all to become childlike, for the sake of family, and for the good times."

"Your father is right, Guy," Lady Ghislaine's melodic voice lilted into the conversation. "Would you hurt your dear sister for the sake of maintaining an image?"

"An image that is sorely misguided, no less. Have I not taught you, over and over, that a lord gains the respect of his people by showing them love? Guy, how can you expect them to feel your love if you cannot even show it to your own sister?" Isabella gazed at her brother with eyes that shone with unshed tears as their father said this. Standing at the window, Guy felt his heart clench at the pain mingled with hope in her expression, silently pleading that the older brother whom she idolized show her affection, as though he had not made the decisions himself all those years ago.

The teenaged Guy gave a resigned sigh, stepped forward, and held out his hand toward Isabella. It took the little girl a moment to understand, but then her face lit up and she unceremoniously dumped the load of greenery into Guy's arms.

"Three, two, one... go!" Guy dashed toward the fireplace, a joyful grin that seemed out of place lighting up his visage.

"Guy, I haven't got my own greenery yet!" Isabella was trying fruitlessly to pick up an equally large string in her tiny arms.

"Well, you'd better hurry up and get it because I'm going to win!" Guy's voice held a playful challenge.

"I don't think so!" Isabella abandoned her attempt at lifting her own greenery and grabbed the trailing end of her brother's and attempted to drag it across the room. She didn't get very far, however, as her brother wrapped his arms around her and she squealed with joy as he lifted her into the air and swung her around.

Sir Guy of Gisborne laughed along with his parents as he watched the scene unfolding, believing just for a moment that he stood in the room with them instead of outside in the snow. The illusion was shattered when he heard the familiar voice from behind him.

"Time to move on, mate."

He turned disappointed eyes on the spirit. "What?"

"We've got more to see, my friend."

Guy felt inexplicably sad at this statement. "But the servants brought in the Christmas tree after that, and we all decorated it together. Father lifted Isabella up so she could put the star on top, and you should have seen the look on her face when..." What was he saying? The words, the _memories_, were just flowing from his tongue like water from a spring. He shook his head in frustration at his lack of ability to understand and put into words his own motives. All he was certain of was what he wanted at that moment.

"Can't we stay?"

The ghost shook his head sadly. "If we stayed as long as you wanted at every place, we'd never get through everythin' you've got to see. This is just one Christmas."

"I won't stay any longer anywhere else, I promise. It's just..." Guy broke off, shaking his head and turning back toward the window, where the family-_his_ family-was still merry as they went about their festive undertakings. Maybe if he didn't say it, maybe then the memories of what would happen so soon after this night would just vanish.

"It was your last Christmas with them, wasn't it?" Guy whirled around to stare wide-eyed at the Allan-ghost. "Your father went off to the Holy Land less than two months later, and didn't come back or send word for years. You and your mother and sister grieved for him, believin' he was dead until his unexpected return. But even then your celebratin' was short-he came back a leper, an impure disgrace to your family."

"MY FATHER WAS NOT A DISGRACE!"

Before he even knew what he was doing, Guy had closed his fingers around Allan's throat and slammed him into the side of the manor. His gaze burning into the blue eyes, he expected the fear he was used to seeing there, the anticipation of the consequences due an employee having wronged the one who controlled both their wages and their future. But he was met with a calmness that almost shocked him into loosening his grip, and just as he realized that there was absolutely nothing he could do to hurt _this_ Allan, the spirit vanished from beneath his fingers and reappeared at his side, his neck remaining pale where a red mark should have been forming.

"No, no he wasn't. There was nothing he could have done about it. Leprosy isn't a choice. Not like selling one's sister to the highest bidder."

Guy felt his blood run cold, and he fought the urge to slap his leather-clad hands over his ears to drown out the sound of Isabella's tinkling laughter that still drifted from inside the manor.

"I...I had no choice. We had no one, no money, Squire Thornton could provide a better life for her, it was either that or the both of us starve..." His reasons had sounded so acceptable at the time, so why did they appear now as no more than petty excuses that were not even convincing to himself?

"I'm sure she understands. She clearly loves you." Allan motioned toward the window and Guy reluctantly followed his gesture. He locked his eyes on the small form of his sister just as he felt the spirit's hand on his shoulder, and suddenly the world was spinning around him.

The next thing he knew was pain that started in his rear end and shot up his tailbone, causing stars to explode before his eyes. Blinking them away, Guy glanced around him and beheld the familiar, but not necessarily welcome sight of the stone walls of Nottingham Castle.

"Sorry, mate. I've never been much good at those quick incomin's." The Allan-spirit grinned and held out a hand to help him up. Guy glared up at him for a minute, then realized that he might not be able to get up on his own, and accepted the offer, wincing as he was pulled to his feet.

"That was low, Allan. Even for you. Taking off without even warning me."

"Try not to hold it against the actual Allan. I don't think he'd appreciate it."

Guy didn't have the energy to even muster up the glare the ghost deserved. His thoughts were still at the manor, his childhood home.

"It's in the past, my friend. There's nothin' you can do to change it now." Guy fought back a shiver as he wondered if the spirit could see right into his soul, or at the very least his thoughts. He tried thinking insulting things about Allan, just to see if he got any reaction. There was none, but that didn't really prove anything.

"Why are we here, anyway? I thought this was supposed to be Christmas _past_..."

"Take a look for yourself, mate." The spirit moved aside to reveal a direct reflection of himself. _This _Allan, however, was not dressed in an outlaw's garment; he was wearing the black leather that he had always donned when he had been in Guy's service. Though his smiles had become increasingly rare the longer he spent in the castle, Allan had normally seemed fairly energetic as he carried out his master's orders. But tonight, Guy thought he looked positively melancholy as he leaned against the cold wall of the stone hallway, staring out of a window.

"Can he... does he know we're here?" They stood maybe four feet from Allan at the most. Guy wondered how he would react if he saw the duplicate version of himself that stood next to Guy. Surely Guy could not be the _only_ person who could see the spirit, could he?

"No. He's not really Allan, either. Just a memory. Real Allan's probably asleep in Robin Hood's camp."

_More likely snuggled up next to some whore in the Trip_, thought Guy smugly. "Well, how many Allans can there possibly be?"

"As many as there are memories of him. So...a lot."

Guy did not think he liked this idea. After seeing what the young thief was capable of, he often thought that the world incapable of handling even _one_ Allan A'Dale.

"Just look at the poor chap," the spirit was saying. "It's the saddest thing, to be all alone at Christmastime..." The spirit shook his head in fond sorrow at Allan's slumped form. "He's got no family, no friends..."

"Well of course he hasn't got any friends. He betrayed them all for money," Guy snorted.

The ghost shot him an icy glare. "Because you had him tortured until he couldn't even stand on his own two feet!"

"He would have taken the money anyway. I've heard tell he's always had a soft spot for shiny things that jingle in one's pockets." Guy chuckled dryly.

"Tell me, Guy, what man hasn't got some weakness? Certainly not yourself." The smile vanished from Guy's face at the insult. "Isn't it better to build up one's fellow man than tear him down? Support him in times of trouble instead o' profitin' from his pitfalls?"

"Well listen to you being all philosophical," Guy said with a smirk, but the spirit's comments were affecting him more than he liked to admit-he was beginning to feel the smallest fingers of guilt creep up inside his chest. He searched for a way to squelch the feeling in its tracks, and suddenly found one. "Wait a second..." He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "I thought you said this was about _my_ past! What's he even doing here?"

"Showin' you the effect your actions can have on other people's lives. If it hadn't been for you, Allan A'Dale would be makin' merry in the outlaw's camp with his friends after a day of helpin' the poor. Instead, he's no longer welcome in the place he thought to be his home, shunned by the people he came so close to being able to call his family."

Guy could take no more. "What I did was _merciful_!" he snarled. "He's an _outlaw_, a wolf's head. Had the Sheriff known he was in the dungeons he would have had him hanged immediately! I spared his life!"

"Well, it's all all right then, i'n't it? You just keep telling yourself that, mate. It's not like you were the one who captured him in the first place or anythin'." The specter looked absolutely disgusted with his charge, as much as Guy wanted to continue to believe his own words, his heart sank with the knowledge that the ghost was right.

Guy felt a respite from his guilt when he heard the footsteps coming down the hall. His relief was short-lived, however, for the guilt came barreling back a thousand-fold when he turned to determine the identity of the newcomer.

It was Marian.

He stood there for what seemed like an eternity, just looking at her. It had been mere months since her life's blood had been spilled by his own sword, by his own hands. Guy did not even realize he how hard he was trembling, or feel the tears running down his cheeks-all he knew was that her face was now miraculously before him, and for a moment he felt wildly elated. Could it _possibly_ be that somehow she had lived, and fooled both him and the vengeful Hood? But then he turned searching, desperate eyes on the spirit beside him, and the pity and apology written on the ghost's features told him that Marian, too, was only a memory. She was still lost to this world, and to Guy.

"Let us be finished with this, now." Guy did not care who this spirit thought he was-he had crossed the line now, and Guy could bear no more of this.

The specter shook his head. "'Fraid not, Guy. You haven't seen everything yet."

"What is the purpose in all of this, to make me feel miserable? Well, you've done an excellent job with that, so why must we stay any longer?" Now that _the fact _was reaffirmed, Guy did not think he could stand to look upon Marian's face for another second, though her beauty was as haunting as ever.

"Misery might very well be a side effect, but you're not done until I say." The ghost nodded toward the happenings, and Guy had no choice but to watch.

Allan had heard the footsteps as well, and turned quickly from his post at the window and tried to look alert and untroubled, but failed abysmally until his eyes lit up with recognition.

"Merry Christmas, Allan!" Marian's voice was cheerful and her smile large and warm as she wrapped the young lackey in a gentle embrace. Allan seemed a bit taken aback by this gesture, but returned it nonetheless.

"Merry Christmas, Marian," he said with a bit less conviction, but when she released him he managed a small smile all the same, though the pain in his eyes was still evident.

"Is everything well?" Guy swallowed hard as he remembered Marian's demeanor for caring about the feelings of everyone around her, a trait which he had written off as weak and feminine far too many times when she was alive.

Allan sighed softly and then gave a small nod.

"As well as it can be."

She laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly. "I've brought some wine down to the kitchens for the servants in celebration of the holiday," she said. "I asked the cook to save you a glass for when you came off duty. I'd say it's nearly that time, wouldn't you?"

Allan looked a bit surprised that she had mentioned him specifically but pleased at her thoughtfulness. "Thank you, Marian. Merry Christmas."

Marian's smile was tinged with pity as she watched him walk away, but footsteps approaching from the opposite direction soon pulled her attention away from Allan's receding figure.

"Guy!"

Guy felt his heart momentarily cease to beat when he heard her lips utter his own name, but his hopes fell again when he saw an identical version of himself, decked out in even more black leather than Allan had been, striding toward Marian. Suddenly Guy was struck nearly blind with the force of memory-he knew exactly what was going to happen next. And he did not wish to witness it again.

"Spirit," he said as calmly as his trembling voice would allow. "I can assure you that I remember very clearly the events which are about to take place. It is not necessary for us to remain here any longer."

"Oh, I think it is." Guy had never heard Allan use that tone of voice before-it was confident, which was normal, but also held hints of omniscience, and it was utterly calm and untroubled. It did _not_ allow for argument.

The version of Guy that was only a memory smiled almost cockily at Marian's greeting.

"Good evening, Marian."

"Where are you going?" She glanced around him, in case he was hiding something behind him that would help her deduce the cause of his overly confident mood.

"Down to the dungeons to...take care of some things." He set to work donning a pair of leather gloves, and Marian's eyes widened in horrified understanding.

"You...you're going to torture the prisoners? But Guy, it's Christmas Eve!"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Marian, justice never takes a holiday."

She snorted. "Is that one of the Sheriff's new lines? Because it sounds like _his _voice that's coming out of your mouth right now. And how is this justice, anyway? Those people have done nothing-they have nothing left to give! Couldn't you at least give them a reprieve for tonight? If they must be separated from their loved ones, can they not at least have this one night of peace to themselves, without the fear of injury? Or will you again let the Sheriff's promises of wealth and power squelch the humanity that I know is hidden somewhere within your heart?" She reached out and laid her hand upon his leather-clad chest, and for a moment, his eyes softened. From his post mere steps away, the Guy that stood in his dressing-gown internally pleaded with his former self, willing that somehow, the event he knew would happen next would take a different turn. How could he not have seen that look in her eyes exactly one year ago-the faith? She _had_ believed in him, after all of his attempts to prove to her that he was worthy of her affections. But the expensive gifts, the promise of wealth and power, they had meant nothing to her. All she had needed was the simple proof that he had it within him to make the right choice. And for once, he had denied her.

As Guy knew would happen, just as soon as his former self let his guard down, he threw it back up again with a vengeance, eyes flashing with anger.

"I do not let the Sheriff make my decisions for me, Marian-those prisoners need to be taught a lesson, and in the interest of keeping the law effective I am more than happy to be the one to do it. And if it means that Sheriff's will gets accomplished and provides wealth and power for me in the process, then I am more than happy to see it through. I have much attend to tonight, so I bid you good night, Marian." With that, he stalked past her, the heels of his boots clicking sharply against the stone floor.

"_Good night_, Guy." Marian's whisper, angry and injured, shook a bit as she watched him go with fire in her gaze before she set off down the hall in the opposite direction which Guy had gone.

He watched her get farther and farther away from him, at the same time begging his own figure to turn around and take back what he had said.

"I'm sorry, Marian..." he whispered, unable to vocalize any further sentiments in his grief. He gazed at the corner of the hallway where she had turned and vanished long after she was gone. Then, he whirled upon the spirit, clutching at his jerkin in the same way he had often grabbed Allan's vest when he wanted to get a point across. This time, however, what he wanted were answers.

"Spirit, you know thoughts, motivations...tell me! Would Marian have loved me if I had treated the peasants the way she wished me to? Would she?"

"Would it really have changed what you did? Would havin' her love have kept you from chasin' the wealth and power that those peasants' torment brought about?" The spirit spoke with that same calmness and knowledge that sounded so strange coming from Allan.

"_Answer me!_" Guy slammed the ghost's back up against the wall, his eyes wild with anger and desperation.

""What difference would it make, Guy? There's nothin' you can do to change it now that she's dead."

"_DON'T YOU DARE!_" Guy swung back his arm to deliver a punch to that utterly composed face. But just before the moment of impact, the ghost vanished once more from beneath his grasp, and Guy's fist connected painfully with the stone wall.

Gasping with pain but not deterred, he cast about him, searching for wherever the specter might have reappeared.

But he did not reappear.

His anger cooling and replacing itself with the fear of being alone, trapped in the past, Guy called out.

"Spirit! I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, come back! Spirit!" He turned round and round, but his search proved fruitless. "Spirit?" His tone was softer this time. "Allan?"

Suddenly the walls began to spin around him just as the manor had before. The rectangular stones turned into rhombuses, stretching and swirling at the same time. And then Guy was swirling with them, and rising, up, up into the air, faster and faster, as though he were caught in a tempest. He would be dashed against the ceiling, and surely perish! Guy shut his eyes and waited for the impact.

But it never came.


	3. Stave III

It took a long time for the feeling of spinning to leave Guy's head and stomach. Perhaps he had hit the ceiling of the castle after all, and died so quickly that he had not felt the impact. That, at least, would have been merciful. More merciful than reliving the moments he had just experienced. For now that he had seen them again, he was sure that they would continue to cross his mind unceasingly, forever and ever.

At long last he mustered up the courage to open his eyes, and was surprised to find that he was in his bed. Or at least, that was the most logical explanation for the softness around him-the truth was, he could not be sure because it was so dark that he could not see anything but for a thin crack of light peering through his bedroom door. The strange thing was, the light did not illuminate the rest of his room, and try as it might, his vision refused to become acclimated to the darkness. For all Guy knew, his bed might have been moved to another room entirely, or maybe even another house. Or perhaps it was just sitting there, suspended in space and time, and he could never leave it. Right about now, he would be all right with that.

Guy had worked hard for months after Marian's death to rid himself of his guilt. It had taken countless sleepless nights, a great many cries up to the heavens, some even in the form of prayers, and drink after drink to wash away the depression and the blame. But he had done it-Guy of Gisborne had forgotten, or at the very least managed to push it to the back of his mind. Until now.

A noise startled him out of reflections as dark as the room he was in. He couldn't be sure, but he thought it sounded like...someone eating? Yes, he could hear the clink of dishes, and the verbalizations of an individual with a very satisfied stomach. And, now that he thought about it, he could smell food as well-the scents of cooked meat and freshly baked bread, and the faint whiff of fermentation that signaled the presence of wine.

Though even the tantalizing odors did not tempt Guy's appetite, a mixture of curiosity and a grim (and somewhat frightened) sense of being resigned to his fate overcame his unsettlement over the intense darkness and his depression after having relived the more awful moments of his past. Guy swung his feet over the edge of the bed and, finding that they rested on the wood planks of a floor, walked to the door that let in the oddly non-penetrating stream of light.

He opened the door to find that he was indeed at the thankfully slightly more well-lit staircase of Locksley Manor. The noises and smells seemed to come from down below, in the kitchen. _Well, at least _that's _logical. Unlike nearly everything else that's happened tonight_, thought Guy as he tip-toed down the stairway. Reaching the kitchen, he pressed an ear to the door to confirm that he had chosen the right room, and then placed a hand on the knob and turned, wondering not without a little excitement who his next guide would take the form of.

He was sorely disappointed.

The figure at that the table did not even seem to register his presence at first, for his attention was completely fixed upon the plate in front of him, piled nearly to the ceiling with food. After watching him stuff his face for a few minutes, Guy cleared his throat. His home invader turned around with a slightly startled expression on his face.

"Oh! There you are! Here, have some food, there's plenty for the both of us."

Guy was _not_ so easily led on.

"Unless you're the second spirit which was promised to me, _get out_. If you _are_ the spirit... but you _can't_ be the spirit, can you? I mean, Allan I can see but... Hood's _cook_?"

The spirit looked offended. "I'll have you know that I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. And Much isn't just Robin Hood's cook, you know-he's his best friend! They fought together in the Holy Land. But of course _you_ know that." He paused to glare at Guy accusingly before continuing. "Of course, he _does_ cook, but not because he _is_ the cook, just because no one else cares enough to do it or knows how, and after he spends all that time slaving over the fire, he rarely even gets so much as a 'thank you', which I think it would do him a world of good to hear once and awhile, especially if it came from his master..."

"Are you_ done_?" Guy crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow with impatient sarcasm.

"No, as a matter of fact, I am not. We're not leaving until I finish eating." The Much-ghost motioned to the immense mound of food before him, and Guy really looked at it for the first time. Well, more of _gaped_.

Guy had been born with the silver spoon in his mouth, so to speak, into the luxuries of nobility. Except for the years he had spent in France after his father's ignoble death had stripped him of his inheritance, he had known feasts at every holiday and celebration, with dishes of all sorts and the cooks preparing sometimes for a week before the event. But never had he seen anything even remotely close to the volume of food which lay before him on his own kitchen table. What he had before passively dismissed as a trick of his befuddled mind registered now as the physical truth-the entire table was piled literally to the ceiling with a wall of food. Victuals of every sort met his eyes-every variety of game, cheese, vegetable, fruit, bread, and sweet he had ever tasted, and so many more.

"Finish eating? You mean _all_ of this? We'll be here until the summer! You outlaw lot are always so keen on helping the poor, why don't you give it to them?"

"If I thought you meant that purely out of the goodness of your heart and not from your selfish will to be rid of me and disbelief in my ability to help you, I would hug you right now. But even if it were, humans could not partake of this food. It is only for the soul."

Guy was thoroughly sick of these ghosts and the confusing, philosophical statements which sounded so odd coming from the mouths of who he perceived to be simple outlaws.

"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," he told the spirit sarcastically. But as usual, Guy's cynicism concealed an uncertainty within-what did it mean if he and the ghost could eat the food, but other people could not? He seriously doubted the ghost would give him a straight answer if he asked, and therefore decided that the most effective method of putting this question to rest was to simply not partake of the food.

"Good. Then I don't have to answer you." The Much-shaped-specter took another large bite of his chicken leg. "I must say, this is delicious!"

There was simply no way that Guy was going to wait for this ghost who happened to have taken the form of literally the most annoying person he had ever met to eat an entire room-full of food. He tried another tactic.

"You know, I was promised _three_ ghosts tonight, so there's one more left after you. If we wait until you finish, we might get back late, make it _angry_." He ominously whispered the last word.

Much-ghost threw up his hands. "All right, all right, if you're going to be_ that _way about it, then there's nothing to do but leave now. There, are you happy?"

"That depends." Guy folded his arms. "Do we have to jump out the window again?"

"Luckily for the both of us, no. I'm not so keen on heights." The ghost took Guy's arm a bit roughly in his hand, and as quickly as a star shoots across a clear night sky, the kitchen at Locksley Manor had vanished, and they were standing...right outside the front door of Locksley Manor.

"Could we _really_ not have walked the twenty steps it would have took to get from the kitchen to here?" Guy looked at the Ghost of Christmas Present in utter disbelief.

"Well of course we could have, but..." Much-ghost glared at him. "You know, you're completely ruining this for me!"

"All right, why are we here?" Guy was eager to get this nonsense over and done with, for though he was grateful for the distraction from the memories that the _last _ghost had churned up, his nerves and patience were already fraying like a rope rubbing repeatedly against a sharp stone.

"So you can see what Christmas is really about, of course!" Much-ghost smiled broadly and flung both of his arms outward, gesturing at the snow that fell around them.

"Well I don't need _you _to tell me that," Guy muttered. "I'm fairly sure I've figured it out for myself."

The ghost narrowed his eyes, obviously annoyed that his charge kept attempting to usurp his role as the knowledgeable one. "All right then, let's hear it."

"Hear what?"

"The meaning of Christmas! You said you knew it, so let's hear it!" His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"It's just some silly holiday to make the poor feel good about their sorry selves, give my servants an excuse to go home early without cooking my dinner, motivate Robin Hood to steal even _more _of my money to give to the peasants, and generally make my life miserable! Merry Christmas everyone, let's make everything more difficult for Sir Guy of Gisborne!"

"Wrong!" the spirit said cheerily. "I _knew _you didn't know the true meaning of Christmas-I just wanted to hear what you would come up with!" With that, he took a firm hold of Guy's shoulder and steered him in the direction of the nearest cottage.

Guy peered through the window of the tiny hut as he had that of his childhood home on his previous supernaturally-guided journey, except this time there was no glass pane for him to press his face against. Instead, he parted the thin, cloth curtains that covered the dwelling's only window and observed the goings-on within.

There were a total of eight people crammed into the one-room cabin. A mother, a dirty apron over her old clothes, was handing out meagerly filled bowls of a rather watery-looking substance that Guy personally would not have called soup to her seven children. Some of them sat on wooden pallets which lay on the dirt floor; others, on the floor itself. With each individual offering, she kissed each grubby child upon the head and said, "Merry Christmas." And each child smiled lovingly at her and accepted the food gratefully before gulping down the soup in a ravenous manner.

Though there was a bit of the concoction left after feeding the children, their mother took none for herself. Guy saw why when the cottage door opened, and a man whom Guy had not even noticed walk by him entered the house. All seven children put down their bowls with a yell of "Father!" and rushed to him, the taller ones hugging his torso, and the younger ones wrapping their arms about his legs.

"Merry Christmas, you lot! And Merry Christmas, Love!" said the children's father when he could finally reach his wife to give her a kiss.

"Oh, Geoffrey, Merry Christmas!" She leaned into his embrace and closed her eyes with a mixture of relief and bliss. "I was so worried you wouldn't be able to come home for Christmas."

"The trees I chop down have stayed in the same place for hundreds of years. They can stand there for one more night if it means I get to come home to be with my family on Christmas Eve!" Geoffrey lowered his voice so only his wife could hear. "Besides, you know I wouldn't miss this for the world. I've missed you, Elena. I've missed you all."

"Is one night all you've got then?" Her eyes looked deep into his, and he nodded sadly. Elena bit down on her bottom lip, but then drew a shaky breath and said,

"Well then, I guess we'll just have to make the best of this one night, won't we?"

"That sounds like an _excellent _idea to me," her husband said and, without warning, he suddenly grabbed ahold of her and dipped her down in a dramatic swoop and kissed her mightily upon the lips. The children squealed and giggled in delight at the momentarily stunned look on their mother's face, which quickly turned to enjoyment as she kissed their father right back.

"Father, Father, what's in your bag? What have you brought for us? Are there presents?" The children had spotted the small brown bag that Geoffrey carried and were getting impatient.

Geoffrey smiled broadly at his clamoring brood, reached into his sack, and pulled out three loaves of bread, to the obvious amazement of his wife.

"Would you look at that, children? We shall have our Christmas feast after all!"

"That's not all!" Geoffrey reached back into the bag and, to the absolute glee of the children, began to pull out toys. It was obvious that the woodsman had made them himself-the wooden swords for the boys were crudely fashioned, and the dolls for the girls were made of the needles of conifers. But to these underprivileged lads and lasses, they might have been made of ivory or crystal, so thrilled were they to acquire them.

The children's mother laughed with delight right along with them. "Oh, Geoff, wherever did you find the time to make these?"

He smiled. "Even the hardest-working woodsmen has a few spare moments to himself when his day's work is done. In truth, these toys have been in the works for months."

"Geoffrey, you are an absolute saint, do you know that? A saint!" Elena's eyes brimmed with tears, which she was no doubt thankful that her children were too busy playing with their new toys to see.

Her husband shrugged. "Oh, I don't know about that. I'm just a man trying to provide a little Christmas for his family, that's all. His _whole _family." With that, he withdrew the final item that remained in his bag, and Elena gasped.

It was a dress, made of a simple blue checkered cloth, but Elena gazed at it as though it were worthy of the Queen herself, while at the same time protesting its presence, thinking it too good to be true.

"Oh, Geoff, you _shouldn't _have!"

He grinned. "But I did."

"But how much of your wages did this cost? Think of the children, Geoff, they've got to have food!"

"Don't worry lass, I've thought it all through. I've been saving, see, for months and months, longer even than I've been making the toys. It's all paid for."

His wife let out a girlish squeal and threw her arms about him once more.

"Merry Christmas, my love." Geoff squeezed his eyes shut as he said this, sending up a silent prayer, thanking God that he could be there to provide for and be with his family for yet another Christmas.

Guy pulled the curtains shut and turned back to look at his spirit-guide. "How can they call this _Christmas_? They have nothing to be celebrating, and nothing to be celebrating _with_!"

Much-ghost huffed in frustration. "Can't you see that that's the point? Their family has been apart for months while Geoffrey has been in the woods, cutting trees to earn enough money to keep his wife and children alive. All they need to be happy is to have their family together, because normally they can't even have that! Christmas keeps up their hopes, renews their spirits after a year of being trodden-down and oppressed by people like _you _who want nothing more than to see them suffer!"

"There's more to it than that! It's all about _politics_. You wouldn't understand." Guy gave a dismissing wave of his hand.

"You're right. I wouldn't understand it-the motives involved are far to selfish for me to even comprehend the thought process that goes along with them." He ignored Guy's growl. "Obviously this hasn't proved anything to you. Time for another view of this year's Christmas. Come on, follow me." He turned and set off down the dirt track that led through Locksley.

"Are we _walking_? Can't you fly like the first spirit?"

"Maybe I can, maybe I can't. But either way, we're walking, or at least part of the way. You can use the hike to reflect on your personal values." The ghost put his hands stubbornly on his hips. Guy rolled his eyes in annoyed defeat and set off after him.

The spirit had been telling the truth-Guy had not realized just how much of a hike he was in for, but he could tell exactly where they were going. After all, the only thing in the direction they were traveling was Sherwood Forest, and who besides Robin Hood lived in Sherwood Forest? Thinking of the infamous outlaw, also his personal worst enemy, made Guy's blood boil; consequently, instead of reflecting as he walked, he grew angrier and angrier with every step.

It seemed to Guy forever before they finally reached the tree-line- it was always in sight, but it always seemed to stay the same distance away. As the spirit stopped, so did Guy, shivering in the cold, purpled hands thrust into his pockets, eyeing the dark forest with a mixture of uncertainty and anticipation.

"Well? We've come this far, aren't we going in?"

The ghost snorted. "Oh, we're going in all right. But did you really think I was going to lead you through the forest to Robin Hood's camp? The location of the camp is _secret_. I'm paranormal, not stupid." Ignoring Guy's glower, the Much-ghost took ahold of his arm as he had inside the kitchen of Locksley Manor, and in less than a moment, they were no longer standing at the edge of the forest, but at the edge of a campsite.

Guy gazed warily at the five outlaws sitting around the fire, suddenly worried. "They can't...see or hear us, can they?" he whispered.

The spirit chuckled. "Fortunately for you, no they cannot. The idea here is to change your ways, not get you shot."

"I appreciate it," muttered Guy through his teeth.

Though five outlaws seemed like a large number in comparison to one unarmed person in a dressing gown, now that he felt safe from their detection Guy realized just how small Hood's Gang really was. For a long time, he and Vaisey had thought this little band was just the inner circle, and that Hood had anywhere from twenty to fifty other men beneath them, as evidenced by several ambushes during which the Sheriff and his men had been subjected to a rain of arrows. But a time, it had become clear that Hood had played them all the fool by rigging contraptions to fire the arrows, and using ropes to shake bushes and tree limbs to make his enemies believe they were surrounded.

The forest-dwellers had obviously cooked up quite a smorgasbord, or at least for _them_-the centerpiece of the meal was a small boar roasting on a spit over the fire, and there was also bread, cheese, dried fruit, and wine. The blonde girl who seemed to be accompanying Hood on his escapades lately had apparently snuck home to be with her mother and sister for Christmas, but the rest of the band was there, gathered around the roaring cooking fire. Robin Hood himself sat on a tree stump, eating his roast pork with gusto while listening to the dark-skinned monk-what was his name? Tuck, that was it-relaying some tale of Christmas kindness and cheer from his time in the monastery. The big, bearish man that the outlaws ironically called Little John sat on a log, looking on with a mixture of slight annoyance and amusement as Much chattered with his usual incessantness between bites. The talkative cook was sitting next to Allan on another log, and the two shared a blanket draped about their shoulders to fend off the chilly December wind. Allan would occasionally make a lighthearted poke in response to some aspect of Much's prattle, eliciting a chuckle from Little John's direction. Much would look momentarily put off, and then see the humor in the comment and laugh along with his friends, occasionally even returning with a harmless prod of his own, to Allan's obvious amusement.

Guy watched them for a time, a hollow longing filling his heart. He was the Sheriff of Nottingham, a man of power and wealth who lived in a warm and well-furnished manor, and yet he had not the joy that these men, who kept very little if any of the money they took on for their own benefit, were constantly on the run from the law, and had nothing but their blankets and a cooking fire to shield them from the cold, possessed on this Christmas Eve. All common sense told him that this was ridiculous, but the happy scene in front of him proved otherwise.

After a time, Tuck raised his wine glass (which was really an old chipped cup) and tapped it with a toasting fork to get the others' attention.

"If it's all right with everyone, I would like to propose a toast." He glanced over at Robin, who nodded his acquiescence, and then continued. "First of all, I would like to entreat you all, amidst our joyful time together over food and drink tonight, to remember the reason that we celebrate tonight, of all nights. Remember the baby Christ in the manger, and what his birth meant for the world."

A collective nod rippled around the camp, and the rest of the outlaws raised their glasses and were about to drink when the monk once again interjected.

"And secondly, I would propose a toast to the provider of our merriment tonight, the founder of our feast, Sir Guy of Gisborne."

From his observation post at the edge of the camp, Guy's eyes widened in surprise. Judging by the general outcry, the rest of the Gang seemed to be in equal shock, but it was no surprise that it was Much who spoke out the loudest.

"Are you mad? A toast to _Gisborne_? Don't you realize what you're saying? Why in the world would we want to celebrate or express any sort of gratefulness whatsoever to that greedy, power-hungry, peasant-abusing, _evil _man?"

Guy winced. Though the opinion of this obnoxious outlaw meant nothing to him, hearing those words spoken with such passion about him by anyone cut his heart just a little.

"Because without him, we wouldn't have such a feast tonight," Tuck answered calmly. "Granted, he didn't give us the money willingly, but having such a large stock of coins coming from one place allows us not only to help more of the poor, who we will deliver handouts to tomorrow morning, but also to justifiably keep a little for ourselves, just this once, so we may have a Christmas feast of our own. Gisborne knows what our plans for the money are, and though he may be greedy and power-hungry as you say, Much, I think that, deep within his heart, he is glad to see his funds going to such a worthy cause. Because it is my belief that every man has within him both good and bad; it is up to him to choose which side shines through." His oratory finished, Tuck looked around at the small group, his dark eyes entreating them to see his meaning. "So what do you say, my friends? A toast, to Sir Guy of Gisborne!" He lofted his glass once more.

"Yeah." Allan's voice was a bit hesitant at first, but then he summoned up his courage and nodded, as though to reaffirm his beliefs to himself, and then raised his glass. "To Guy."

Tuck smiled at him, and then turned to Robin, whose face held a dark expression. One by one, the gazes of the other outlaws shifted until all eyes were on their leader. It seemed a silent eternity before Robin spoke.

"Guy of Gisborne has done nothing but make my life hell. For months, years even, he pursued the woman I loved and flaunted her forced affections in my face before murdering her right in front of my eyes. He was a pawn of an evil and cruel Sheriff before he became one himself. I have no reason to toast him." Tuck started to protest, but Robin held up a hand for silence. The monk obeyed, sensing that the archer was not yet finished speaking. "And it is for that reason that I will anyway." He raised his cup of wine. "To Guy of Gisborne. May he realize his sins and repent of them, and know that his wealth will be redistributed for a far greater cause than the advancement of his own political status." Without waiting for the others, Robin proceeded to drain his wine glass in one gulp.

Tuck sighed. It was an odd toast, but a toast nonetheless. He couldn't really have asked for more. He drank as well.

On the other side of the campfire, hesitant "To Gisborne"s were uttered by Much and Little John, who followed the reluctant admission by downing their respective drinks. Guy saw Allan stare into his wine pensively for a moment before he too, lifted his glass to his lips.

Guy turned to the spirit at his side. "This can't be what's really happening. I'd like to see the real Robin Hood Christmas celebration now, if you please. On second thought, spare me. It's freezing out here and I'd like to go home now."

"Oh, it's real all right." The Much-ghost grinned. "Every bit of it. Don't think he forgives you or anything, but at least he wishes you an untroubled soul. After you ripped apart his, what more could you expect from Robin Hood?"

Guy narrowed his eyes. "I don't _need _Hood's forgiveness. I don't _need _anything from him, or from any of them." He motioned with his arms toward the small group of outlaws. "And they have my money, and I want it back! Where is it?" He began to start in anger toward the camp to search, but the spirit stopped him by grabbing the back of his dressing gown and jerking him severely backward.

"Is that money _really _the only thing you care about?"

"It's _my _money!"

"It belongs to the people of Nottingham! You were the first one to steal it, not Robin Hood! You tax people to death even though you've seen what poverty has done to the citizens of this county. It's ripped apart families, starved children, left people with nothing but the tattered clothes on their backs..."

"That's NOT my fault!" Guy roared. "Nottingham was a poor-dump _before _I became Sheriff-this is all Vaisey's doing!"

"And now that Vaisey is gone and you are in charge, what is stopping you from making it better? Why not change your image as a cruel, greedy sheriff into one of fairness and kindness and love?"

"You mean like Edward? Well, look where it got him! Ousted and then left to die in the town that _used _to be his!" Guy scoffed.

"But the people prospered under Sheriff Edward's reign. They were well-fed, had at least a functioning economy...they were happy! Look at them now, Guy! Their only hope is the tiny band of outlaws sitting in front of you."

"What do you want me to do? Give up everything I've worked so hard for and run away and join the merry outlaws?" Guy's voice was a sarcastic hiss. "I don't think so!"

"You know what you must do, Guy. There is nothing more that I can do for you. I'm sorry that you don't believe in the significance of what I've shown you." The spirit's eyes were sad, almost painfully so, as he laid a hand on Guy's shoulder. "My time with you is up, Guy."

"What?" Guy was taken aback. "Just like that? You're not going to argue with me anymore?"

"What you have seen tonight, both with me and the one who preceded me, and especially what you will see in the company of the one who follows me, will have more effect than any petty argument. Goodbye, Guy of Gisborne." And with that, he vanished before Guy's eyes.

Guy stood there for a minute in shock, staring at where the ghost had just been. Then, he glanced back toward where the outlaw's camp should have been, and realized that it was gone. In the heat of the argument, they must have moved away from the camp, and snow had begun to fall, washing away his footprints. Guy was lost in Sherwood Forest.

For no more than a count of five, Guy allowed panic to overtake him. Then he turned back in the direction he had been facing when he first realized he was lost and made to start walking, hoping he would eventually come across a path or the tree-line.

But he never took that first step, for in front of him stood a shadowy figure, cloaked in black.


	4. Stave IV

Guy would have turned and fled had it not been for the paralyzing fear that shot up his spine and fastened his feet to the snowy ground. He could see no part of the figure's skin-every bit of it was draped and shrouded in black. But it wasn't just the mysteriousness of this apparition that frightened Guy-it was the ominous air that it possessed, coupled with a terrifying sense of familiarity, as if Guy had been in its presence before and not known it. He drew a shaky breath and managed to find his voice.

"Are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?" He tried unsuccessfully to quell the shakiness in his voice.

The figure did not speak, but gave a single nod. Summoning up his courage, Guy continued.

"Forgive me if I am bold, spirit, but all of the other specters that have visited me this night have taken on the forms of people who have somehow played a role in my life. If I am correct in assuming that you too, beneath your concealing robes, have the face of someone I know, is it too much to ask that you reveal your identity to me?"

There was no response from the shrouded figure. Guy tried again.

"If you cannot show me, could you then at least tell me? I feel that I would take more from your lessons if I could better relate to you."

Had he been able to see the ghost's eyes, Guy thought from the feeling that suddenly inundated his senses that he would have seen a glare there. But there was still no verbal response.

"Do you doubt my ability to learn?" The ghost remained motionless. "Granted, I suppose my words and actions tonight provide little evidence to prove my point." Guy sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "I know that you have come take me to different places and show me events, and that there is nothing I can do to escape it." He didn't even want to try; this ghost did _not_ look like someone that Guy would want to make angry. "Lead on, Spirit."

Guy swallowed hard as the ghost approached him slowly, and then ducked instinctively in fear as it swept its billowing black cloak around both of their bodies.

For the first time since this whole awful ordeal had begun, Guy found himself in daylight. But even coupled with finally being out of that accursed forest, it did nothing to lighten his mood-the sense of foreboding that had come upon him was too dense to shake.

He looked around to find that he was back in Locksley Village, its streets oddly bustling. Normally, the peasants who resided in the little group of houses were either out working in the fields or shops, desperately attempting to make enough money to keep themselves alive, or holed up in their cottages, hiding from the tax collector as though they thought that maybe if they stayed out of sight, he would forget to knock on their door.

But today the poor of Locksley seemed almost jubilant. There were smiles on all faces, and people greeted one another in the street. Guy turned with curiosity toward his spirit-guide.

"What wondrous event has occurred this day that these people, who have so little to be thankful for, seem so thrilled about?"

The specter merely motioned to a group of peasants by the side of the road, who were standing in a group and chatting excitedly.

"Have you heard the good news?" asked one woman, her eyes shining.

"It's almost too good to be true!" exclaimed a man.

"It seems unfitting that we should feel such joy at a death, but how can we not?" questioned another man. "After all that Sir Guy of Gisborne has put us through, first with working for the Sheriff and collecting his tax money, and then becoming a Sheriff just like him, starving us out of house and home for his own gain...I have to say that I, too, am glad that he has met his end!"

"Things'll only be going up from here!" the woman who had spoken first exclaimed. "How can they not?"

Guy turned toward the ghost, his eyes wide with horror. "What do they mean, 'met his end'? Have I died? Tell me, Spirit, what year is this? Surely deep within the thirteenth century? Tell me that I live a long and prosperous life before this event occurs!"

The spirit whirled upon him, and Guy could feel disgust emanating from within its black shrouds, but the part that scared him the most was the ever-so-slight touch of sadness that he also detected. Despite the fear that clutched at him, Guy continued.

"Is that a no?" There was no response. "Is it so inhuman that I wish for a full life, for a substantial existence before I die? Tell me how I am being someone with low moral values simply by living!"

The ghost motioned with its cloaked arm toward the village of Locksley, with its decrepit huts and poorly-clothed, emaciated people. Guy looked upon them and suddenly understood.

"You mean to say that by only striving for my own advancement in life, I establish myself as a selfish person who cares only for his own well-being, and not that of others? Is that why everyone hates me, and is glad that I am dead?"

The spirit gave a slight nod, and Guy glared at the people who filled the little village's single street. "Well then, let them hate me! I have no choice, I have no one, _nothing_ to sustain me but my ambition! Not after..." he broke off, swallowing the lump in his throat. "But I do not wish to dwell on this matter. That is in the past, and your domain is the future, Spirit. Please, lead on."

The ghost seemed to study him for a moment-in truth, Guy could not be sure what it was doing, for he could not see its eyes. Then, it swept its arm again. This time, Guy was prepared for the action and did not duck, but the closing of his eyes was an unbreakable, instinctual response. When he opened them, he found that he was yet again in Nottingham town.

This time, he was just outside the castle, within the confines of the portcullis. There were a great many people here, as well, but they all wore the uniform of the castle guards. Guy looked around, thinking he saw some familiar faces, but he had never been one to get to know any but the most high-ranking of his employees. He thought he caught a passing glimpse of his captain of the guard, but he couldn't be sure.

It seemed as though every guard that Nottingham Castle employed was standing gathered around the gallows, looking expectantly upward at a very large, vaguely familiar-looking man in a jaunty, feathered hat who stood beneath the nooses. The fat, mustachioed man was holding up a silver cloak link that Guy suddenly recognized as the one the Allan-ghost had been fingering when he had first shown up in Guy's bedroom earlier that night. It seemed like a decade ago now.

"What a beauty, 'eh? Just look at how it sparkles in the light!" The fat man held the link between his fingertips and twisted his ample torso around so that all in the crowd could see the specimen. "I'll start the biddin' off at, oh, let's say... five pounds."

Several hands went up. The man smiled greedily, the curled ends of his mustache bobbing as the corners of his mouth turned upward.

"Six pounds?" Some hands went down. "Seven?"

The bidding continued until one guard's hand remained up. The auctioneer relinquished the cloak link and jingled his new coins with a satisfied chuckle of "Lucky, Lucky George!".

Guy seethed with disgust. "My possessions are being auctioned off to the _castle guards_? What madness is this? Where is my sister? Surely _she_ would defend my honor!"

In response, the spirit ushered him up the front steps and through the enormous doors of the castle. Once inside, the pair ascended several flights of stairs until they reached Guy's study. _Although_, Guy supposed with a sinking heart, _it is no longer my study anymore. I'm dead._

He looked over to his desk to find Isabella sitting in his black leather chair, and he instantly felt anger leap within him at the cocky expression on her face. But suddenly he remembered the little girl in the red velvet dress, begging her older brother to help her hang the Christmas greenery, and his rage softened.

At Isabella's side stood the castle's treasury advisor, the town cryer, a page, and, to Guy's absolute disgust and mild fear, Sir Jasper.

"Now that your brother is dead, Prince John will have to assign a new Sheriff of Nottingham." The Prince's head messenger looked at Isabella meaningfully. "As the late Sheriff's sister and someone who knows the goings-on in the castle, is there anyone you would...recommend?"

Gracefully, Isabella rose to her feet and sauntered over to where Sir Jasper stood. "I could maybe...think of a few people, if given the time."

"One person in particular, I take it?" Sir Jasper grinned, and Guy shuddered. He had forgotten what a terrifying thing Sir Jasper's grin was. Jasper reached out and fingered a long, dark lock of Isabella's hair, and she smiled seductively.

"Yes. And..." She reached out and laid one smooth, pearl-colored hand on Jasper's chest. "I would be very much obliged if you could put in a good word for her with the Prince."

"Will do." Sir Jasper's pleasure was obvious. "But you must forgive me, Lady Isabella. It seems...odd to me that your brother has been dead for but a number of hours, and yet you seem to feel no grief."

Isabella's expression immediately darkened. "My brother has been cruel to me ever since we were children. He made my life a miserable hell, and I am glad to be rid of him."

Sir Jasper's eyebrows went up in an impressed manner. "I like a woman with spirit. I shall speak to Prince John in your favor. Until we meet again, My Lady. Or should I say, Sheriff." He dipped his head, then turned on his heel and marched out of the office.

Guy tried desperately to connect the conflicting images of the little girl in red velvet in his mind and the hardened, ambitious young woman he saw before him, and his head spun.

"Spirit, what have I done? Surely this change in my sister's personality cannot be _all _my doing?"

The specter regarded him silently, giving off a feeling of accusation.

"No! Surely her time with Squire Thornton is what has turned her into this...this..." He broke off. "But it was I who sent her there in the first place. It's like I've killed her, too, just like..."

Thinking of his most awful and regretted sin-he wondered how long it had been since he had done that horrible deed, now that he was in a time in the future of which he did not know the identity-he realized that if the townspeople, the castle guards, and even his own sister were happy at his passing, there would be one individual in particular who would be absolutely thrilled. And that was the last person he wanted to see right now.

But it was as if the spirit could see straight into his heart, for just then it gave another great sweep of its arm, and suddenly they were back in Sherwood Forest, their feet on a barely-visible path that meandered across the forest floor. And just to the side of Guy, amidst the trees, was that one person.

Robin Hood.

He was flanked by the imposing, hulking form of Little John, and the smaller, slighter one of Allan A'Dale. Judging by the way they would occasionally glance down the path, they seemed to be waiting for someone. The rest of their little band of outlaws, Guy supposed. And, seeing as the spirit did not seem to be making any further indications that he should take any sort of action, he supposed that that was what they were doing, too.

As he stood there, Guy stole a glance at the black-cloaked figure at his side. He couldn't shake the feeling that this spirit, too, had taken the form of someone he knew-after all, common sense said that if all the other ghosts had looked and acted like people from his life, so should this one. And, though he hated to admit it even to himself, the ghosts' resemblances had driven home their points farther and harder than he was comfortable with. But if the whole idea of this exercise in the supernatural was to drive home a point, what reason had the spirit to not reveal its true identity? Or was there something so horrible hidden beneath that cloak that Guy could not bear to look upon it?

He wondered, too, about the spirit's demeanor. Though it said nothing, Guy was finding that he could judge the tone of its thoughts by feeling the aura that emanated from where its face would have been, had it not been hidden by its cloak. It was a phenomenon much akin to feeling rather than seeing a glare when someone stands behind you. So far, much of what Guy had been detecting had been disgust and disapproval, but the sadness he had noted earlier when he had suggested that he might have experienced a premature death made it seem to Guy that the distaste was but a pretense. Was this spirit's true nature really one of kindness and compassion?

Guy's pondering was interrupted by footsteps trotting up the path. He turned to behold Tuck running toward them, Much close at his heels. Their friends, moving from the trees and onto the path, made as though to greet them, but were stopped by the grave yet oddly exhilarated expressions on their faces.

"What is it? What's happened?" Robin's searching green eyes were inquiring and concerned as he regarded the monk and the former servant.

"Master." Much was panting a bit from his run, but it was obvious that was not the true reason for the unsteadiness of his voice. "Master, Guy of Gisborne is dead."

A shock seemed to ripple through the members of the Gang who had been previously uninformed of this news. Little John and Robin looked as though they could scarcely believe their ears, but the expressions of jubilation that had been on the faces of the visitors did not cross their visages. Had Guy not purposely looked his way the instant the proclamation was given, the supposed dead man would have missed the momentary flicker of an odd sort of troubled relief that crossed Allan's face. But after a fraction of a second, his face took on a worried look.

"Are you sure?" Robin's eyes flicked back and forth between Much and Tuck, as though he was looking for a way to prove the news was true; Guy could tell he was thinking of every possible way that they could be wrong, and checking through all of the ways he could have misheard them, or they could have misinterpreted their source.

The monk nodded. "Yes, Robin. Much and I saw his body being rolled out of Nottingham on a cart."

"But..._how_?" Robin seemed to be in a state of analytical shock.

Tuck shrugged. "I heard the stretcher-bearers saying that the news had been delivered to Prince John that a sudden illness struck him-that he died of natural causes. The doctor that attended him was at his bedside when it happened, and has gone to London himself."

Allan's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard past a throat obviously dry with nervousness. "But doesn't this mean that Prince John will send another army to destroy Nottingham? Remember what happened the time we lost the Sheriff, Robin? We're all gonna die!"

Robin gestured with his hand for the worried thief to settle down. "We are _not_ going to die, Allan. There's no one to blame if he died of natural causes, especially if the doctor is there to attest to it." Robin sighed, his shoulders sagging with the weight and suddenness of the news. "But he _will_ send another Sheriff, most likely one that we don't know. We'll have to learn their ways, and how to handle them."

"But maybe the new Sheriff won't be as bad." Much's voice was tentatively hopeful.

"Not if he works for Prince John," snorted Little John, and Much's face fell.

"What do we do, Master?" He turned inquiring eyes on Robin, who shook his head.

"Right now there's really nothing we _can_ do-he's dead. We couldn't reverse that even if we wanted to. You can head back to camp if you wish."

"And where are _you_ going?" Much seemed worried at the stress these new and sudden circumstances were placing upon his former master.

"I just...need some time to think." Robin started to turn back to the woods, but Much's voice stopped him.

"You're..._upset_ about this, aren't you? You're actually sad that he's dead!" His visage was the picture of incredulousness as he gazed at Robin, who suddenly seemed to snap at his words.

"_Upset_? Why would I be_ upset_? Guy of Gisborne murdered the woman I loved-my _wife_! He's finally gotten what he deserves, and I'll bet he's burning in hell right now. Which is exactly where he should be!" He paused, chest heaving from a blind anger identical to that which momentarily shot through Guy's body as he was reminded of his eternal quarrel with Robin.

Much's voice quavered. "Master, what you're saying and the way you are saying it are two different things. Why has this news upset you so?"

"Because it wasn't supposed to be like this, Much." Robin's voice was dangerously quiet now. "Because he was supposed to die by my sword as I avenged Marian's death, not whimpering on a sickbed! _I wanted to see the light go out of his eyes!_" Robin yelled, looking frantically at his four stunned men, searching for some form of sympathy or understanding. But all he found was shock.

"But what about what you said at Christmas? About how you wished Gisborne would realize his sins and repent of them? What happened to that?" Much looked saddened at this change in his former master's demeanor. "I was so proud of you that night, Master Robin." This final sentence came out a whisper.

The fire in his heart finally extinguished by his friend's anguished tone, Robin's hopeless gaze met Much's and he murmured,

"It doesn't matter now. He never changed, never repented. It's all over now, just like that. There's nothing anyone can do anymore." And without another word, Robin Hood turned and vanished into the labyrinth of Sherwood Forest.

The remaining outlaws stood in silence, staring at the place where their leader had disappeared. Guy turned to the spirit at his side, whispering instinctively even though he knew the others could not hear him-he was, after all, a dead man.

"Spirit, I don't understand. Was my death so tragic that even my mortal enemy feels grief?" Once again, he received no response. Guy heard voices and turned back to the outlaws.

"We should do as Robin requested, and head back to camp," Tuck was saying, naturally assuming the role of leader in Robin's absence. "One of us should go hunting for tonight's dinner, though."

"I'll do it." Allan's voice was clipped as he heaved his longbow over his shoulder.

"I'll come, too." Much's offer was sudden, and Allan's expression was unreadable. But he gave a curt, wordless nod and started into the trees in the direction opposite that which Robin had traveled. Much followed him, and, at the spirit's motion, so did Guy.

Though Allan had signaled his acquiescence at Much's original request, as they wound their way through the underbrush it became obvious that the thief was not at all comfortable with the cook's presence. His shoulders seemed to grow tighter, more rigid as he walked, and from behind him, Guy could see his fists opening and closing in barely-contained irateness. Suddenly, he came to an abrupt halt, nearly causing Much to crash into him. Thinking the former poacher had spotted some game, Much was immediately silent and still, eyes scanning the trees for signs of mammalian life. But it became clear that this had not been the reason for the stopping when Allan spoke, his voice low and cold.

"Now would be a _really_ good time for you to stop followin' me, Much."

Much seemed surprised. "You seemed perfectly all right with me coming on your little hunting expedition a few minutes ago."

Allan whirled on him, ice-blue eyes blazing. "You _really_ don't read people well, do you, mate?"

The blonde outlaw looked momentarily taken aback, but suddenly his eyes narrowed with understanding.

"You're upset, too! Of _course_, why didn't I see it before? You used to _work _for him..."

"SHUT UP!" Guy had never seen Allan so angry before-during the time they had spent in one another's company, Guy had always been the one yelling orders, and Allan the one submissively obeying them. He had always seemed to Guy a man who was in control of his emotions, the opposite of Guy, though he was loathe to admit it, even to himself. But now Allan was obviously angry, _very _angry. But underneath the cloak of rage, Guy could detect an immense, nearly overwhelming hurt in Allan's eyes.

"You're still loyal to him, aren't you?" How foolish was this man, thought Guy, that he would continue to push this matter and accuse even though his situation teetered on the brink of dangerous? He watched Allan intently, expecting him to pull back his fist and connect with Much's face. But the cold fire had returned, and Guy had to strain to hear the dangerously low voice of his former lackey.

"Is that what you think, then? That after all of this time, after all the attempts I've made to prove myself to you? That I'm no different than I was when I worked in the castle?" The intention of the rhetorical questions was obviously to send Much on a guilt trip, but to Guy it seemed almost as though Allan were asking the questions of himself. "You have no idea, absolutely _no idea_, how hard I try _every single day _to forget what I've done, to put my past behind me, to convince myself that the people who say they've forgiven me really have!" By this time he was yelling again, and literally shaking with rage.

Much stared at him with a mixture of shock and fear, finally beginning to realize the effect of his words.

"Allan, I..."

But Allan cut him off, seemingly unable to stop himself now that he had begun to make his feelings known. "I try and _try _to forget, even with all the reminders. The offhanded prods, all the "You're goin' in first because you know the castle best, Allan"s, the suspicion that you all don't even realize you feel when one of our plans happens to go wrong. But I can see it in your eyes!" He paused, fighting for his breath. "Even through all of that, I still managed to almost forget it all, to be able to live with what I've done, to think that maybe I have a chance of making things right! Until today. Today I find out that Guy of Gisborne is dead, and it all comes barrelin' back on top of me. And what Robin said, about him not changin' or repentin'-all I can think about is, maybe he tried! What if he did try, and it just didn't work?"

Much shook his head. "Gisborne was an evil man, Allan. Think of what he's done to the people of Nottingham! And he _killed_ Marian!"

"But I _worked_ for him, Much! I _saw_ him _try_-and I just thought that if _he_ couldn't do it, then..." He broke off suddenly, his anger dissolved and replaced with despair and fear and hopelessness.

"But Robin's right," he said, his voice now little more than a whisper. "It doesn't matter anymore. Guy's dead, and he's gettin' what he deserves."

Much just stared at him, completely blown away by his whole outburst, for once in his life rendered speechless.

"Go back to camp, Much," said Allan deliberately. Without a word, Much turned and retraced his steps back toward the small forest path. Allan watched him, still trembling, his knuckles white around the shaft of his longbow. After a time, he, too, turned and slipped away, ironically seeming to become one with the forest that seemed to have such a difficult time accepting him.

Guy was seething. "After all of that, he doesn't even care about what happens to me. I'm getting what I deserve, hey Allan? We'll I'll give that sniveling little traitor what _he_ deserves!" He poked an index finger angrily in the direction in which Allan had disappeared. "And _Hood_! He hasn't forgiven me; he hasn't even _begun_ to! He's just acting like he cares because he's trying to prove to himself that he's really as noble as he claims to be. Well, I'll say this, Robin Hood-you _aren't_!" Guy knew Robin couldn't hear him, but he didn't care. He was absolutely fed up with this nonsense-the ghosts, the visions, the outlaws, everything.

"Spirit, take me home! I will endure no more of this!" Guy ordered, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Instantly, the sky turned dark around him, day changing to night in a mere breath. The scenery altered as well-the trees of Sherwood Forest had been replaced with the gravestones of the Kirklees Abbey cemetery. Life had become death.

Guy felt fear leap in his throat for an instant at the spookiness of his new surroundings, but the momentary panic did not quell his rage.

"Is this supposed to scare me into changing? Because it's not working!" he hissed. "There is _nothing_ you can show me that will cause me to abandon all of my efforts. It's all well and good for the outlaws to help the poor and feel good about themselves. But they will never move ahead in life! And I, who have worked my entire life to get where I am today, refuse to give it up just because a bunch of paranormal beings think it's a good idea! Who are you, to think you can change me? SHOW ME YOUR FACE!" Rage nullifying his inhibitions more than a thousand drinks, Guy reached out, and with one fluid motion, pulled the spirit's black cloak away from its face. What he saw nearly brought him to his knees.

She was exactly as he remembered her, the image he had tried to erase from his mind for months and months- the pearl-colored skin, rich brown curls, and the pure white dress that had become her burial robe. The only thing that was different was the look in her eyes. Instead of the willfulness, defiance, or even joy that she displayed so much in life, those eyes now held an unfathomable sadness, and Guy knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the lone cause of it. _This_ was the reason she had not allowed him to see her face, the horror that he could not bear to look upon. For indeed he _could _not bear it. He stumbled backward in an instinctive attempt to escape it, and in doing so misplaced his foot on the edge of a freshly dug grave. He teetered for a moment, panic rising in his chest, before falling back-first into the pit, his eyes still locked inextricably on hers. As he fell, Guy screamed, every ounce of grief and fear in his soul culminating into one word-her name.

"_MARIAN!_"

She just watched him, silently, that incredible pain never leaving her eyes. And Guy could not bring himself to close his, even though he knew the impact was coming and that he should prepare himself for it. Suddenly her face vanished and he was falling through flames, as though he had left the earth's crust far behind him and was being transported into its center. As the world purged itself, removing this foul stain from its surface, saving its innocent and delicate from contamination, images began to flash across Guy's vision.

He saw a man returning to his friends after hours in the torture chamber, his eye purpled and swollen, a cloak hiding countless other cuts, burns, and whiplashes. The figure closed his eyes in a silent prayer for some form of sympathy and comfort, only to find that he had not even been missed.

He saw a girl of thirteen, her curly hair tangled and limp, the darkness of it contrasting starkly with the paleness of her bare skin. She was curled in a corner, arms wrapped around her unclothed body, shuddering with sobs. In her hand was was a silver pendant in the shape of a wolf's head, and as Guy watched, she brought it to her trembling lips and kissed it.

He saw the man who he had sworn to kill, the one who had been able to claim at the last moment the only thing Guy had ever truly desired in his life, aiming a black-and-white-striped arrow at the back of an unsuspecting figure who Guy knew to be himself. The outlaw opened his mouth to call out the name of his enemy and bid him face him as he delivered his killing shot. But as Guy looked on, the mouth closed, and the hands of the legendary archer, whose arrow had only missed its target once in his life, began to tremble. Then, slowly, he lowered the bow.

He saw the rolling dunes of the Holy Land, the place where his greatest sins had been committed, and where he had destroyed the one thing that had truly mattered to him. And there, amongst millions of grains of sand, stood two graves. One was freshly covered, and a shield of the Knights Templar lay upon it, the red of its cross mirroring that of the spilled blood which had brought both the piece of armor and its owner to their final resting place. The other grave was yet open, and as Guy fell toward it, her face was before him once more, eyes closed in the final rest of death. Guy reached for her, his fingers but a hair's breadth away from her skin, but a resistance for which he could only blame himself prevented him from feeling the contours of her pale face. Grief and regret inundating his soul, Guy made to scream her name once more, but this time it came out as a whimpering sob.

"Marian, I'm sorry..."

At his words her eyes opened, and Guy felt his heart leap, for gone from within those depths was the unbearable sadness, the pain. In its place was forgiveness mingled with joy, and for the briefest of moments, Guy of Gisborne was at peace.

And then she was gone, and Guy's world was black.


	5. Stave V

Light. There was light.

Guy could see it without even opening his eyes, for instead of an inky blackness behind his eyelids, there was a reddish brown. And he could once again feel softness around him. Very, very slowly, hardly daring to believe it to be true, Guy opened his eyes.

Yes! He was in Locksley Manor, in his own bed. And there was daylight streaming through the curtains. Guy glanced sat up slowly, still not entirely convinced that it was all over.

"Are there any more spirits lingering? Show yourself!" With one movement, Guy pulled back his bed-curtain and glanced warily about. Seeing no one, he remembered the Ghost of Vaisey's words: _"One...two...three."_

It was finished, then. Guy wasn't sure whether to leap to his feet and dance around or fall back onto his bed in relieved exhaustion. In the end, he did neither. He rose to his feet and went to stand by the window, drawing back the curtains and letting in the full light of the morning, which reflected brightly off of the new-fallen snow. Peasants walked up and down the tiny dirt path, calling out in greeting to one another in the street. Looking upon them, it suddenly occurred to Guy that he no longer did so with disdain-instead, he felt an overwhelming desire to share in their joy. Throwing open the window, Guy called out to two young lads who were passing by near his house.

"You there! What day is it?"

The boys stopped and stared at him, eyes wide.

"D'ya hear that?" asked one of the other. "Sir Guy's gone mad!"

"I heard that, and I'll have you know that I have _not _gone mad! Now answer me!" Guy caught himself, and cleared his throat. "I mean, would you please be so kind as to tell me the date?"

The second boy smiled broadly. "Why, it's Christmas Day, it is!"

Guy's mind immediately went back to the moment when the Much-Ghost had asked him to give his interpretation of the meaning of Christmas. Remembering his own response that it was "just some silly holiday," Guy winced at how selfish it sounded. Could there, in the midst of all of his guilt and remorse, be found the tiniest shards of hope for redemption? Mustering up his courage, Guy asked of the boys,

"And what is it that makes this day different from all the rest? Why do the people who normally stay hidden walk about the streets with such joy today?"

The boy who had informed him of the identity of the day took it upon himself to answer this question as well.

"Because Christmas is the one day of the year that everyone loves their neighbor, and the world and its people are at peace."

The boy's companion looked at him and shook his head incredulously. "Where do you get this stuff, Philip?"

But Guy had found in the young lad's words the promise that he had hoped so fervently to be true. What he had seen in his visions was genuine, then, and not just some creation of an overstressed mind. Everything-the outlaws' toast, Robin's mixed emotions, and most importantly the forgiveness that had been in Marian's eyes, had been real. Guy raised his eyes to heaven and knew that she was up there somewhere, looking at him right now and smiling. And he had to do something to deserve that smile. He _would_ do it.

With newfound hope, Guy called out once more to the boys on the street. "Wait!" Though they had begun to move away by this time, they turned to face him once more. A slight annoyance showed on the companion's visage, but young Philip's face was alight.

"Thank you, young man. Your words have put joy and peace in the heart of a man very much in need of them." Guy cracked an awkward smile. It must have looked slightly horrifying to the poor boy, he thought, but Philip returned the gesture anyway.

"Merry Christmas, Sir Guy!" He finally gave in to the tugging of his companion on his coat-sleeve and turned to leave.

"Merry Christmas!" The words tasted odd coming from Guy's mouth, but at the same time, they felt good on his lips. He watched the two small forms walk away for a moment, and the world seemed as still as a frozen pond yet as perfect as untrodden snow. He was snapped from his reverie when he remembered that if he was going to earn his forgiveness, he had a great many amends to make, and not much time to do it.

He pulled out the chest that he kept beneath his bedside table that held the vast majority of his personal funds. Once, he had showed a similar chest to Marian in an attempt to assure her that he could provide for her when they married. Later, disguised as the Night Watchman, Marian had robbed him of that money to provide for the poor, and he had unwittingly almost killed her for it. _How ironic_, he thought, not without bitterness, _that she almost died stealing my money to give to the poor, and here I am about to give it voluntarily after I've killed her_.

Guy froze almost in mid-thought. Never before, he realized, had he found it so easy to address that matter in his mind. He had always thought of it as "the event" or "his worst sin", as though somehow not calling the murder by its actual name would somehow make it nonexistent. But it felt better, he realized, to be frank with himself. It was as though in giving his actions and crimes an identity, he was able to begin to forgive himself for them. For he knew now that Marian forgave him, and that fact in itself gave Guy the strength to take that first step in doing the same.

But he had an agenda to keep to. Reaching into the money chest, Guy removed several handfuls of coins and deposited them into a purse which he looped into his belt. He would come back for the rest later. He hurried to the stables and had his stallion tacked up and ready to ride within minutes.

The gallop to Nottingham felt good. The winter wind was frigid as it rushed in his ears, and occasionally he would feel a cold splash as his horse ran through snow drifts and kicked up some of the fluffy white stuff. But to Guy, the snow felt like a cleanser, the pure whiteness of it washing away his stains and his sins. And the speed was exhilarating. As Guy urged the horse on, faster and faster, he felt his heart rise with more joy than he had felt in a very long time.

He pulled up to a trot as he reached the gates of Nottingham town. After had he bid the stunned guards an emphatic "Merry Christmas!" and tossed them each a copper for their troubles, Guy started in on the street-beggars. At first, he contemplated just reaching into his purse and throwing out coins left and right for the peasants to pick up. But then he remembered the events of the previous day, which had resulted in a spooked horse and _nearly_ resulted in both a dead peasant boy and a dead Guy, and decided to take a more personal approach. Pressing the reins of his horse into one hand of a street boy and some coins into the other with the promise of more when he returned, Guy set off on his campaign. For nearly an hour he traversed the alleyways, giving out coins and personally wishing the money's recipients a Merry Christmas. He even shook their hands, though he had to hide a grimace of disgust the first few times. Dirt and grime really were not Guy's favorite things in the world, but seeing as he now felt very clean inside, he supposed he could get used to them.

When he passed the butcher's shop, a new idea suddenly struck him. He fingered the layer of gold coins that remained in his purse and, after contemplating it for a moment, figured he had enough. He knocked on the door of the little house that was attached to the shop.

The butcher seemed shocked, if not mildly annoyed, to see Guy standing on his doorstep on Christmas morning.

"Merry Christmas, Sheriff...how can I help you?"

"Merry Christmas, my friend!" Those words were beginning to slide more and more easily off of Guy's lips. "I hope you _can _help me-I have a bit of an odd request."

As he explained his idea, the butcher's expression became increasingly incredulous, both at the change in Guy's demeanor and the volume of money he was about to make. When Guy finished, the butcher nodded vigorously as he received the entirety of the remaining contents of Guy's purse.

The people of Locksley would be even happier, if possible, than the butcher that Christmas. For later that day, a delivery boy bearing a large portion meat of some form would show up on each and every doorstep, with no name or message attached. They would assume that the generous gift came from Robin Hood, but as he would deny it in the days to come, they could only speculate. But regardless of who had purchased it, every family in Locksley would sit down to their largest feast in many long years, and have plenty left over for the cold winter days to come.

His purse completely empty and his business with the butcher completed, Guy retrieved his mount and proceeded to the castle. After handing the horse off to the frightened stableboy, who (_oddly_, thought Guy) seemed to grown even more terrified when Guy apologized for not having money for a tip and promised him an extra large gratuity next time, Guy set off for the lowest level of the castle. As he finished his descent and stood at the mouth of the corridor that opened into the dark and desolate space that was the dungeon, his nerves suddenly overtook him. After the horrors that he had caused his little sister, the years of pain he had put her through and then provided no comfort to soothe her wounds when she had sought it, he did not think that he had it within himself to face her. But then he remembered the little girl weeping in the corner, her lips upon the silver wolf's head, and knew that he was already a forgiven man, if only he could bring himself to accept that forgiveness. With that thought in his mind, Guy rushed to the door of his sister's cell with a cry.

"Isabella!" At the sound of her name, she turned from where she lay on the barely intact wooden plank and regarded him, eyes rimmed red from crying now wide with a mixture of hope and disbelief.

"Guy?" she whispered in a voice hoarse from crying the night through.

"Jailor! Open this door, and get these shackles off of my sister!" The order implied such immediacy that the jailor, though confused, did not question it. As soon as she was free from the chains that bound her to the dungeon wall, the sobbing Isabella rushed into her brother's arms, and all of Guy's lingering fears that she would still be cold toward him were dissolved.

"Isabella, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." He could do nothing but repeat his apology over and over again, stroking her tangled hair as his shoulder became wet with her tears. They knelt on the cold floor of the dungeon, oblivious to the curious and disbelieving eyes of the remaining prisoners. How long they stayed in that position, Guy could not know, but finally the force of both of their emotions calmed and Isabella was able to say the words that Guy knew to be true but needed so desperately to hear anyway.

"I forgive you, my brother."

"For _everything_?" He grasped her shoulders and pushed her away from his body so that he could look into her eyes. All he could see in them was relief and love; the hatred due him from the years of hurt and fear he had caused her had been nullified for the love of family.

"Yes. For _everything_." Guy allowed her to slide back into his embrace once more, and sighed shakily.

"Thank you. I've changed, Isabella. I can't really explain why, but we'll be a family now, this I promise you." At the poignancy of his words, she pulled away of her own accord this time. "You can come and stay with me at Locksley Manor, and I'll protect you from Thornton should he come looking for you. You'll have everything you need."

"Guy...thank you." Isabella gave a small, incredulous laugh. "And in return, I promise not to associate with outlaws anymore."

Her brother smiled ironically. "I think _I _shall be guilty of associating with outlaws before the day is out."

She regarded him curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I cannot explain now, but you'll find out soon enough." Guy turned to a guard. "Get my sister upstairs and see that she is given whatever she needs-food, drink, a bath, fresh clothes. Then have a carriage take her and her belongings to Locksley Manor." The guard nodded, and after a slight hesitation, Guy thanked him. It felt odd, thanking an employee, but he supposed that they were people with feelings, too. How different his perception of the world was, now that he had had his supernatural experience!

After reassuring Isabella that they would be together by nightfall at the latest and wishing her a long overdue Merry Christmas, Guy set off once more for Locksley Manor. When he got to his bedchamber, he once more examined the contents of his chest of money. This was not the money that he had extorted and forced out of people as a part of his profession, nor was it to be delivered to Prince John. This was what Guy had worked his whole life for. When their parents died, he and Isabella had been left with nothing. Since then, Guy had committed countless sins to get to the position of wealth and power he now held. First, he had sold Isabella into a marriage that was more of a slavery. Then, he had gone to work for Vaisey, who had brainwashed his young mind and deteriorated his morals. Guy had learned quickly that to survive in this world meant to look out for yourself. It had taken him until now to learn that to live in this world meant to look out for others.

Marian had been a lone flower in the desolate wasteland that was Guy's life. For awhile, she had been all that sustained him-the hope that she would one day realize that he could give her what she needed. After the moment of anger in which he had ripped that beautiful flower from the ground, Guy's sustenance had become his ambition. He kept telling himself that he would be happy if he could get to the uppermost rungs of the ladder of success and wealth. He was truly a self-made man, or so he had thought. Now he realized that it had been Marian, not himself, who had really shaped the parts of him that were worth keeping. To hell with Prince John and his taxes! Guy no longer needed the power and wealth that the prince had promised him, for he now had something that made his heart feel lighter and more fulfilled than those selfish pursuits ever could have.

Forgiveness.

After a moment's hesitation, Guy reached into his drawer and removed the intricate silver cloak link that he had last seen being auctioned off to a castle guard, and pocketed it. Then, grunting under the physical strain, he lifted the heavy chest and all of its contents and, with painful slowness, lugged it down the stairs, out the front door, and into the stables. There, he hitched his stallion to a two-wheeled cart, hoisted the chest onto it, and set off in the direction of Sherwood Forest, hoping that his plan would work.

It did. He had been walking for less than a half hour when the sound of an arrow singing past and then thudding into the wooden chest met Guy's ears. He turned to find himself at the mercy of two knocked arrows, two swords, and one very imposing-looking quarterstaff.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the infamous Guy of Gisborne. Look lads, we've got ourselves a real Christmas present here-the Sheriff of Nottingham himself, walking alone and unguarded through the forest with a chest of money!"

"Robin, I'm telling you, this _has_ to be some sort of trap." Allan's bow remained trained in Guy's direction, but the leather-clad man could hear the nervousness and underlying frustration at not being listened to in his whisper.

"Allan's right, Master." Much, too, sounded worried.

"All right then, Gisborne. What are you playing at?" Robin took a step closer so that the tip of his arrow was but inches from Guy's face.

Guy raised an eyebrow. "Playing at?"

"There's absolutely no way you're stupid enough to walk through Sherwood Forest alone with a chest of money. Unless..." With one swift and unstoppable movement, Robin slid sideways past Guy and threw open the lid of the chest. The glint of gold coins met their eyes, and the other outlaws glanced around for any sign that they might be surrounded by soldiers.

"It's not even a decoy." Robin was incredulous. "Really Gisborne, what _were_ you thinking?"

Guy shrugged. "I suppose I was assuming you outlaws would take the holiday off."

Robin threw back his head and laughed heartily. "The holiday off? Did you hear that, lads?" He addressed Guy again. "Well, I've got news for you, my friend. Charity and good will _never_ take a holiday."

"Well, it's a good thing they don't. Because then I would have had a wasted trip through the forest. It was uncertain enough that you lot would actually come out of the woodwork to ambush me. This could so easily have been a trap. You know, you really ought to listen to your men more often, Hood." Guy nodded slightly in Allan's direction. In response, his former lackey tightened his bowstring and narrowed his eyes, not in the least bit convinced that he and the other outlaws were not in danger.

Robin was confused now, as well, a fact made obvious by his sudden territorial display.

"Get out of my forest, Gisborne."

Guy raised an eyebrow. "What? You mean you don't want my money?"

"Oh, we're taking the money all right. We're taking the money, and then you're leaving."

"It's not that simple, Hood."

"Oh, really? Well I can make it _that simple _just by releasing my bowstring."

"At least listen to what I have to say." Guy's voice raised a bit in volume, signaling his immense frustration.

To his surprise, Robin lowered his bow rested its tip on the ground. Tuck dropped his sword arm as well, his face a picture of curiosity. The rest of the Gang, however, remained battle-ready.

"All right, then." The leader of the outlaws sounded amused. "Let's hear it."

Guy glanced around him, feeling the mockery of Robin's glare more acutely than he did the hostility of those of three of his companions. "I know I've done some awful things in my life, one in particular..."

Robin snorted. Guy scowled.

"Will you let me speak?"

The archer glowered at him for a moment before motioning with his hand for Guy to continue.

"Recently, very recently, actually, I have had my eyes opened to both the causes and the consequences of my sins, and I have come out of it a changed man. How I could have lived in such close proximity to poverty all of these years and not allowed myself to be affected by its horrors, I do not know. But I _have_ been affected now, and I have realized that the furthering of humanity is of far greater importance than the furthering of my political status or monetary security."

All five outlaws had lowered their weapons by this time and were gazing at Guy with utter amazement. Robin was the first to recover himself, suspicion lacing his features.

"And why should I believe you, Gisborne?" His voice dropped to a low hiss. "You murdered Marian."

Guy swallowed. He had expected this, but the sudden anger in Robin's eyes unnerved him nonetheless.

"You toasted me last night." The words were a quick and desperate bid for survival. The anger vanished and was replaced with shock, which made itself plain on all of the outlaws' faces. It was Tuck who spoke this time.

"How do you know this? The location of our camp is secret!"

Guy shook his head. "How I know isn't important, and even if I did tell you, you wouldn't believe me anyway. But I heard everything you said, Tuck, about every man having both good and bad within him, and it being up to him to choose which he displays. This is me, choosing to let the part of me that is a decent man overtake the malignancy, for the first time in my adult life!" He turned to Robin. "And what you said, about wishing that I would realize my sins and repent-I am! What you wished for has come true. I will no longer torment the peasants of Nottinghamshire, and this money is for you to assist them with. You'll know better what to do with it than I. It is not taxes like what you removed from the castle yesterday-these are my personal funds, which I worked for many long years. The methods which I employed to obtain them now stain my hands, and I feel no longer worthy to keep the money. I am asking you, Robin Hood, to ease my conscience by using this money, as well as what you took from the castle yesterday, to aide the poor."

There was a silence in the forest which lasted a very long time. After nearly half a minute, Guy was surprised to hear Little John break the silence.

"This, I cannot believe."

"Master, _surely_ not... I mean, you don't actually _believe_ him, do you?" Much was positively dumbstruck.

"I think he's gone bloody mental, Robin." That came from Allan. Guy winced inwardly. He had known that his drastic change in morals would not be readily accepted by the outlaws, but he had hoped that he would get some sympathy from Allan, at least. But then he remembered (or foretold, he though ironically) the moment deep in the forest during which Much had been on the receiving end of Allan's guilt- and self-doubt-infused tirade. On a hunch, Guy turned to look at the young thief and to his great relief saw in his eyes, beneath the doubt and the fear, the smallest glimmer of hope.

"I don't expect you to believe me Hood, and I _certainly_ don't count on you forgiving me. You can just take the money, if you like, and I'll be on my way."

Guy made to unbuckle his stallion from his harness and lead him away back to Locksley, but Robin's voice stopped him.

"Don't think you _will _have my forgiveness, Gisborne. The pain you caused me can never be righted."

"I know." Guy felt the same way about the pain that he had caused himself, but the promise the previous night had brought him was that he would slowly become able to live with it. Pondering this, he was surprised to hear Robin's voice again.

"_I_ may not be able to forgive you, the mere vengeful man that I am, but I think _she_ would have." Now it was Guy's turn to stare in utter disbelief. "Marian always saw the good in others, and gave of herself to bring out that good. And in the honor of her memory, I can find it within myself to at least believe you. And it goes against everything I stand for to turn down a gift directed at the poor. So, thank you, Guy of Gisborne, and I say with honesty that I am glad that my toast last night has come true so soon."

The two mortal enemies stared at each other for a moment, coming to a mutual understanding without words. Then Robin called out to his men.

"Right then, lads, let's see exactly what sort of funds we're dealing with here!"

He went to the chest and began to rummage through the money, judging the approximate value and determining the best way to distribute it. He was joined in a moment by Much, Little John, and Tuck. Allan, stationed at the farthest point from the cart, approached more slowly, but Guy cut him off.

"Allan."

The young thief looked up at him hesitantly, nervously. _He's afraid of me_, Guy realized with a sinking feeling. _He's afraid that I'm still angry with him for betraying me and running away. He's afraid I'll hurt him again._ His mind flitted back once again to his visions of the future. _"I'll give that sniveling little traitor what he deserves!"_ Guy shuddered at the harshness of his own words. _I suppose I can't blame him for being frightened._

"Allan, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

The younger man looked suspicious and confused. "Sorry? For what?"

"For putting you in a situation that forced you to choose between your friends and your life. No man deserves to have his loyalties called into question that way. It wasn't fair, and it wasn't all your fault."

Allan's guard was still up, but Guy could see a flash of pain across those bright blue eyes as he remembered the torture chamber and the feeling of being utterly alone of his own accord. _He has more chains wrapped and locked around his heart than Vaisey's ghost had trailing from his torture devices_, thought Guy with dismay. But he could see that he was making headway, albeit ever so slowly, and so continued.

"And I want you to know that I don't hold your running away from Portsmouth against you." He gestured at the four outlaws gathered around the chest of money. "A lot of needy people are going to have their first real Christmas in a long time because Robin Hood is alive, and that very well might not have proved true if you hadn't gone back for him and the others."

Allan shook his head. "It wouldn't have mattered. The mercenaries attacked anyway." He closed his eyes for a moment, regret written on his features, and Guy wondered if maybe he'd turned over the wrong stone. Allan was regressing back into that trap of self-mistrust and feeling worthless, and Guy had to say something quickly to pull him back out. Hesitantly, he reached out and laid his hand on the outlaw's shoulder. Allan's eyes widened with fear at the unprecedented act and he made as if to step backward, but then he seemed to catch the earnestness on Guy's face and stopped.

"But that's not the point, Allan. The point is, you went back for them with the full intention of saving them. I didn't deserve to have someone like you working for me. You should have been doing what you're doing now all along, helping other people. Good people, who deserve it. Not me." Now _Guy _was regressing. He sighed and shook his head, frustrated at himself for not being able to say what he needed to, what he knew would help Allan. Never, he thought, had someone needed something from him the way Allan did at this moment. Or at least, if they had, Guy had been too blind to see it. But when he looked at the outlaw, something in his expression prompted Guy to keep going.

"Allan, we've both looked into ourselves and saw the evil there. We lived it, we suffered for it, and so did the people we loved. That's what unites us, in a way." The blue gaze darkened, but Guy gently squeezed where his hand still rested on Allan's shoulder. "But there's something that makes us different, as well, something more important. And that's the fact that you were able to rise above that evil. I...admire you for that, and I hope that you'll accept my apology." Guy found that he had nothing more to say, and so he dropped his hands down by his sides and waited for a response.

The experienced liar's eyes searched Guy's for any trace of falsehood, and then slowly lit up with belief-both in Guy's words and in himself.

"I'm not bein' funny, but you really _have _changed, haven't you?"

Guy nodded. "I hope you can believe and forgive me."

Allan swallowed. "I'm not used to dolin' out forgiveness, mate. I'm usually the one askin' for it."

"Well, I'm in no place to judge whether you do it exactly right the first time." Guy managed a chuckle and felt a great sense of accomplishment when he saw Allan smile.

"No, I don't suppose you are." And then he laughed, as well.

The gesture seeming appropriate in that moment, Guy uncertainly reached out his hand. When Allan accepted it to shake it, Guy observed a newfound confidence on his features and knew that he was once step closer to righting his wrongs. Just then, he remembered a small detail that he'd nearly forgotten in the rush of his first day as a new person. He reached into his pocket, withdrew the silver cloak link, and held it out to a surprised Allan.

"This is for you. Merry Christmas, Allan."

The puzzled but happy thief accepted the trinket, turning it over analytically in his hands.

"'S nice. Thanks! But...why?"

Guy wracked his brain for an explanation that wouldn't give away the true origins of his reasoning. He had just now regained Allan's trust-he didn't want to frighten the lad with his supernatural tales.

"I just...thought you might like it, that's all. And recently I've been...pondering...some things that could become of this particular cloak link and...let's just say I don't think you're the worst thing that could happen to it." Guy winced inwardly at the image of the pretty piece in Lucky George's grubby hands, and was glad that he had chosen to do what he had with it.

"Allan! Are you going to help us carry the chest back to camp or not?" Much sounded annoyed that his friend was getting out of the physical labor. Allan flashed Guy one final grin before trotting over to where the rest of the outlaws were securing the chest's lid in preparation for pulling the cart by hand back to their camp.

Robin turned and nodded to Guy. "We've got to properly count this money before we can distribute it, to make sure it's given out fairly. I hope you can understand why must ask you to leave before we head back to our camp."

Guy nodded. "The location of the camp is secret, I know. Right then. Merry Christmas, Hood and...you lot." His grin was taunting yet light-hearted as he mounted his stallion bareback.

"What will you do, now that you can't pay Prince John?" Robin's voice held less concern than curiosity, but Guy appreciated the sentiment nonetheless.

"Tonight, I will go home and celebrate Christmas with my sister. In the future...that remains to be seen, but I know that whatever it is, I will be happy doing it. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Gisborne." Robin's voice was soft and thoughtful, but Guy did not miss the farewell as he turned his horse around cantered off down the path.

As he left the trees far behind him, Guy felt a sense of peace come over him that he had never experienced before. All his life he had had unfinished business-there was always more money to be made or more people to impress. Now that the money and chances of power were gone, all rational thought told Guy that he should feel as if he had even more to do, more to make up. But for the first time, he felt as though what he had needed to do that day had been accomplished, and all that was left was to spend the evening catching up on many lost years with Isabella. And as he moved in time with the horse's gait through the snow, Guy thought he caught a glimpse, just for a moment, of a dark-haired girl on a bay horse at his side, the animals' strides matching. Her joyous laughter remained ringing in his ears long after the image had faded.

_**Epilogue**_

Guy's stallion had had enough. Never mind yesterday's escapades-small children threatening to trip him, being whipped and galloped nonstop all the way from Nottingham to Locksley, and then fed before even being cooled out or brushed. No, today had been _far _worse. His master had found it necessary to joyride him all the way to and from Nottingham. Never mind _his_ joy! And that wasn't even the worst of it! No, _then_ he had been hitched to a cart like some pack-animal. The insult of it all! And here he was, pinning his ears for his rider to see his discontent, but he wasn't paying a shred of attention. He would not tolerate this sort of treatment a moment longer.

The mud puddle was perfectly placed. It appeared out of nowhere like an oasis in the desert. Just as he passed it, the stallion threw his back legs over his head, sending Guy of Gisborne rear-first into the sloshy mess.

There. Served him right. Let him find his own way home. With a satisfied snort, the horse trotted off in search of any grass which might still be peeking through the snow.


End file.
